Chained by War and Love
by Athenais Penelope Clemence
Summary: This is a long Tudor-Valois-Habsburg-Medici epic, written with authentic historical detail, plausibly blending facts with fiction. Exiled from England, Anne Boleyn enters into a political marriage to King François when France is ravaged by the Habsburg invaders. The deadly intrigues of the Tudor, Valois, and Habsburg families and courts are entangled with drama, passion, and wars.
1. Prologue

_Hello, my dear readers!_

 _This is another Anne/King François I AU, and I hope you will enjoy it. A while ago, I started editing this ancient fiction because I needed a break in my work on my Tudor novels which were completely rewritten (hopefully, they will be published as soon as possible). I'm certain that it will take me years to complete this project, as I'm going to write it in my free time and mainly for distraction. There will be some unusual pairings in this AU._

 _Dedications: for **EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Countess of Sherwood, Sea Goddess Amphitrite, Art Counterclockwise, Countess of Sherwood, QuokkasAreMarsupians, and Rosalind25, as well as** **Magnificent Lady Anne Boleyn, Madame de Valois, VioletRoseLily, unamedhpauthor, Emilia Lozano, and French Damsel.**_

 _The story **'Chained by Love and War'** , as well as my projects for publication (novels **'Between Two Kings'** , ' **The Queen's Revenge'** , and sequels to them) were inspired years ago by the great fanfiction story that I first read on this website – **'Nemesis'** by **cruelangel101**. Although this talented author seems to have left this website and the story, I heartily thank her for the inspiration **cruelangel101** provided for me! _

_All reviews are appreciated. Constructive criticism is always welcome._

 _Disclaimer: I do not own the CBC/Showtime television series The Tudors, or any of the show's characters. I have no rights to the canonical plots and storylines. All the ideas in this AU are mine, although I discuss them with my friends in real life and my readers._

* * *

 **Part One**

 **Imperial Invasion of France (1536-1537)**

 **Prologue: The Scythe of Cronos**

 _ **May 17, 1536, the Tower of London, London, England**_

"Viciousness has Henry's face," stated Anne Boleyn, the condemned Queen of England. "Henry is killing all of us because I haven't given him a son."

Assembling all her strength, she compelled herself to stand up from the bed. Fearing that she would be too late, she dashed across the queen's chambers like a scared doe running for its life from a predator. Dragging a chair to the window, Anne climbed onto it and peered out.

At this moment, George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, ascended the wooden platform with impressive firmness. Swathed in black cloth, the scaffold was guarded by arquebusiers. Pointing to the White Tower, where she was incarcerated, George said something to Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, and Anne's heart constricted at the realization that he thought of her.

At the sight of him addressing the spectators, Anne braced herself against the tide of bereft nothingness. She strained her sight to behold her brother's final moments.

She regretted that she could not hear George's speech. She saw that there was a peculiar air of serene tranquility about him, tinged with a cast of melancholy. Yet, his eyes were so bright, almost feverish, as if he were dying a death by burning with the resignation of a Christian martyr.

" _Christian men, I'm born and judged under the law, and die under the law, and the law has condemned me. Masters all, I haven't come here to preach, but to die, for I have deserved to die if had twenty lives, for I'm a wretched sinner, and I have sinned shamefully._ "

As he paused, the crowd that had gathered on Tower Green didn't insult and curse him. A sliver of sadness veiled their features, a leaden weight of unsaid words upon their lips. Had the folk's sentiments towards the Boleyns softened? She'd believed that the spectators would be happy to see the alleged traitors dead. But as her brother went on, a pall of gloom shrouded everyone.

" _I have known no man so evil, and to rehearse my sins openly would be no pleasure for you to hear them, nor yet for me to rehearse them, for God knows all. Therefore, masters all, I pray you take heed by me, and especially my lords and gentlemen of the court which I have been among, take heed by me and beware of such a fall. And I pray to God the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, three persons and one God, that my death may be an example to you all. And beware, trust not in the vanity of the world, and especially in the flattering of the court._ "

"What is he saying?" Anne asked herself, her scrutiny riveted on him. "What?"

Visions of their childhood flitted through her consciousness. The three Boleyn children running through Hever's gardens … George hugging Anne after her return from France… Her brother teasing her and mocking her skills at chess until Anne had sputtered... Again, George joking that the Boleyns would always have to fight against gory hordes of relentless foes.

Something vivid had emerged in those days, prophetic like a solar eclipse. Perhaps there was an appointed time for every affair under the heavens, as justice was as fleeting as the wind.

Stilling for a split second once more, George moved to the closure. The queen yearned for time to cease, but instead, it ticked like a slow march of mortality.

" _I cry God mercy, and ask the world forgiveness, as willingly as I would have forgiveness of God; and if I have offended any man that is not here how, either in thought, word or deed, and if you hear any such, I pray you heartily on my behalf, pray them to forgive me for God's sake. And yet, men do come and say that I have been a setter forth of the word of God, and one that have favored the Gospel of Christ; and because I would not that God's word should be slandered by me, I say to you all, that if I had followed God's word in deed as I did read it and set it forth to my power, I had not come to this. I did read the Gospel of Christ, but I did not follow it; if I had, I had been a living man among you: therefore I pray you, masters all, for God's sake stick to the truth and follow it, for one good follower is worth three readers, as God knows._ "

His expression devoid of earthly trappings, the Viscount of Rochford knelt on the block, courageously and with the grace of an elegant courtier. Perhaps, impressed by the dignity of his farewell, the throng broke into loud cries, their faces anything but hateful. The prisoner veered one sad glance of bitter anguish towards the White Tower, as if remembering his sister.

"I'm here, George," whispered Anne, tears moistening her eyes. "I'm with you…"

At the drop of a hat, the executioner raised his hand. The axe flashed and descended like the hatchet of destiny. The head was severed from the torso with one clean strike.

Antoine de Castelnau, Bishop of Tarbes and the French ambassador to England, winced at the sight of the blood spurting out of the militated body. It was not the first time he had attended an execution, but this was awful, for they were all innocent. As his master, King François had said in his codified message, the English king had stepped on the path of unholy darkness.

At the same time, a horrified Anne agonized over the tragedy. "It flashed like the scythe of Cronos." Even in such minutes, her magnificent intelligence didn't sleep, flowing inside her head in whimsical patterns. "Cronus was King of the Elysian Fields, where admission was reserved for heroes. So, my brother shall become a hero in heaven."

Seizing it with his left hand, the axeman held the head aloft, shouting to the assemblage, "Behold the head of a traitor!" Surprisingly, the folks observed it with mournful eyes.

Her sobs rising like sails, the queen crossed herself. "Rest in peace, sweet brother."

Her heart broke into numberless smithereens as the two pieces left of George were taken away. Forcing herself to control her emotions, Anne watched the ghastly spectacle until every of her alleged paramours – Mark Smeaton, Henry Norris, Francis Weston, and William Brereton – were dead. Littered with their corpses, the scaffold was now deluged with innocent blood.

Finally, the tiny thread of her control broke like a tree limb under too much weight. The snap impelled her to howl with horror, and she slipped from the chair to the floor.

"Oh God!" sobbed a distraught Anne, her face a mask of excruciating agony, wet from tears. "Oh God!" She clutched her chest, as if she were having palpitations.

All of the queen's ladies had huddled in the corner, staying at a distance from her since dawn. They had all been handpicked by Thomas Cromwell to act as his spies, but some of them emphasized with her. She was grateful that they had left her to her grief.

Her tear-filled eyes flashed like those of a Cyclop. "Henry! It is your entire fault! Your lust for that Seymour strumpet killed them all. The Titan Cronus used a scythe to castrate and depose Uranus, his father, and I would gladly have done the same to you."

A cavalcade of remembrances of Elizabeth resurfaced in her head, reopening old wounds. Henry had blamed Anne for giving him a daughter, even though their girl had never been a failure. When she'd been pregnant with Elizabeth, the astrologers Anne and Henry had consulted had assured them that the baby would be a boy, but they had all erred.

Nevertheless, one old woman had claimed: " _Your child is divinely gifted. Blessed by the Lord, and is destined to bring a Golden Age to England_." Based on her daughter's extraordinary intellect and precociousness, Anne was inclined to believe that prophecy. Elizabeth would attain such a distinguished rank in the earthly realm that her greatness would ring out through all the impermanence of time. That astrologer must be right!

Another recollection stirred in her consciousness. When they had been out of anyone's earshot, that woman had apprised her of something that Anne had dismissed as baloney back then. Now the odd oration echoed through her head like the utterance of a messiah: " _Two kings! One is your pain and ruin, the other is your joy and life_ ". Nonsense, so she dismissed it again.

Scrubbing the tears away, the doomed queen rose to her feet with a titanic effort. She trudged to the bed, ribbons of her sorrow intertwining with those of her prayer for the dead men.

"Sleep in peace," Anne pronounced quietly as she reclined onto the pillows. "You are all innocent victims of a libertine and a monster. You shall welcome me in heaven tomorrow."

* * *

 _Many thanks to **EvilFluffyBiteyThing** who created the illustrations and provided invaluable assistance in editing the story._

 _In this AU, Anne Boleyn is assumed to have been born in 1508. The birth date of King François was changed to 1498 so that he is almost of the same age with Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor. King Henry's birth date remained unchanged._

 _In Greek mythology, Cronus was the leader and youngest of the first generation of Titans, the divine descendants of Uranus, the sky, and Gaia, the earth._

 _In Greco-Roman mythology, Aeneas was a Trojan hero, the son of the prince Anchises and the goddess Aphrodite (Venus). He is mentioned in Homer's Iliad, where he_ _is a minor character. In Virgil's Aeneid, he is said to have been as an ancestor of Romulus and Remus._

 _The Elysian Fields, also called Elysium, is the final resting place of the souls of the heroic and the virtuous in Greek mythology and religion._

 _May I ask you to leave a review of the prologue to Chained by War and Love? In the past, I had so many reviews on this website (reviews to my old story "Anne Boleyn: Life-death-rebirth path", and it was so great. Reviews always encourage an author to update! Thank you in advance._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	2. Chapter 1: Herculean Hands of Fate

**Chapter 1: Herculean Hands of Fate**

 ** _May 18, 1536, the Tower of London, London, England_**

"Madame," called King Henry of England sternly, as he entered the queen's chambers.

The incisive steel in that familiar voice sent a tremor through Anne Boleyn. She rose to her feet and stared at the man who was still her husband, for, their marriage had not been annulled, at least not yet. She had heard that the validity of their union was being investigated, so she would not be surprised if one day, Archbishop Cranmer came to her with the sad tidbits.

"Please, leave us," Anne instructed her ladies, who all scurried out of the room.

The King and Queen of England remained alone in the same apartments where, three years earlier, they had spent the night before Anne's coronation. On the day of her arrest, she had anticipated to be thrown in the dungeons, only to be relieved upon learning that she would be lodged here. The room was Spartan in its furnishings, but tidy and spacious. A dark walnut chest of drawers sat in a corner and matching chairs in the center; a large oak bed, swathed in black satin sheets, was positioned to the right of the east-facing window, which looked down to Tower Green.

Splendidly habited in a doublet of crimson velvet, the placard and sleeves of which were wrought with gold, the English monarch looked every inch a majestic royal. Over his doublet, he wore a mantle of red brocade, trimmed with ermine and decorated with the collar of the Order of the Garter. His red silk hose matched the ensemble, as did his girdle, ornamented with diamonds and rubies. His cap of scarlet damask was adorned with diamonds and a small red plume.

Although a mere three weeks had passed since their last meeting, Henry had transmuted into someone else. His broad countenance had a handsome and burly look in the thoroughly English way, his thick, red hair like a lion's mane which Anne had once compared jokingly to the flames of a conflagration. A savage fierceness was etched into his every sinew, every breath, and every pore of his skin. His stature and deportment were kingly in the extreme, though tinctured in the hues of brutality, lurking in his aquamarine eyes, somewhat small but penetrating.

"Your Majesty," the queen greeted.

The monarch ignored that she did not curtsey to him in accordance with the protocol. His gait heavy, he lumbered across the room to the small window, from where she had witnessed the executions of other men unjustly condemned yesterday. As he halted several feet away from her, he glared at her fiercely, as if the darkness had broken from the confines of Hades.

 _Has the ferociousness I see now in him always been there? Or was I so in love with him that I was completely blind?_ Such were Anne's thoughts as she eyed her homicidal husband. He was no longer her knight – no longer her dearest Hal who had fought against the whole world and torn the country apart to wed her. The irredeemable evil of the deeds he had perpetrated to get rid of her had destroyed Anne and her beloved brother. Presently, Henry was _Anne's mortal foe._

Meanwhile, Henry viewed his unwanted spouse from top to toe. Anne had lost weight, but she was not broken: her inner strength shone in her eyes like a beacon in the night. Shadowed by a sense of impending doom, her unconventionally beautiful features immeasurably truer and deeper than the fleeting life which she had lived up to that time. With its long, open, pendent sleeves, her plain gown of gray-colored damask set off the queen's ghostly pale countenance.

A bellicose Anne commented, "Ah, crimson! It suits you best! In this attire, Your Majesty looks like a fiery dragon that lures prey into its lair. No wonder that I think so, for you have stained your hands in the blood of many innocents, one of them being my own brother."

"Your tongue is too poisonous," Henry hissed like a snake.

With glacial arrogance, she articulated, "Sorry if I displeased you, dearest sire. All gods who receive homage are cruel and dispense suffering without reason, because, otherwise, they wouldn't be worshipped. You became almost God after England's break with the Vicar of Rome." Her voice rose an octave. "You think that you can do whatever you want. That is why you are hell bent on killing me in order to marry your slut."

"Unfortunately, you will live," spat the monarch.

At first, she was astounded and then horrified. "No! I've prepared for death!"

Grudgingly, he enlightened, "Yesterday, there were riots against your sentence."

Sheer bewilderment fluttered across her visage. "An uprising?"

His fists clenched tightly. "Yes. My own subjects dared act against me!" He furrowed at the unpalatable memory that his subjects doubted the charges against the woman whom he hated. Monotonously, he voiced the short tale about the events which shocked him to the core.

She stressed, "They understand that if a queen cannot have a fair trial, then no one can."

A spontaneous rush of euphoria swept across the queen's obliterated world. She realized why the witnesses of the recent executions had not cheered the deaths of her brother and other men unjustly condemned. _After I had displaced Catherine as Henry's queen, the entirety of England seemed to have hated me like the worst pestilence. Now they have developed sympathy for me rather than continuing to harbor grudges against me._ Currents of joy inundated Anne's soul.

The monarch's words snapped his wife out of her reverie. "I had to hastily convene Privy Council. Master Cromwell insisted that I spare you on certain terms. After careful consideration of the matter, I decided to let you live against my better judgment."

Perverted mirth rose from the bottom of her soul, and she quaked with wild laughter that scalded her throat. "Cromwell recommended that you do so, didn't he? Really? The very man whom you employed to manufacture these ludicrous and abominable charges?"

The ruler's features flushed with fury, his angry gaze glittering under the reddish, bristling brows. "Shut your mouth, you filthy strumpet! You must be prostrate with gratitude that I allow you to live out the rest of your days instead of sending you to hell where you belong."

Anne seated herself on the bed, and snapped defiantly, "I have never betrayed you."

"Your fathomless black eyes of a demoness will not bewitch me again." His voice fell to a dark rumble. "Cromwell told me that you had slept with more than one hundred men."

"How can a queen have so many lovers without anyone noticing it?"

Her laugh scraped over his nerves like a hot blade. "I would not laugh, if I were you."

King Henry stepped to the bed, and, instantly, his ferociousness was magnified tenfold by his proximity to her. Uncontainable ire etched into their expressions, they glared at one another like a pair of devils. Such deep and portentous silence ensued that the whisper of the guards' footsteps outside the queen's chambers was thunderous by contrast.

His voice forcibly composed, he uttered, "Agree that the marriage never was, give up all rights. You can take Elizabeth, you will be cared for. Set me free. Obey me, you adulteress!"

Finally, she realized that she would fail to persuade him of her innocence. "Our daughter shall not be a bastard. You promised marriage and the crown. Now you try to dance out of your promise. I shall not have it!" Her voice rose to a crescendo. "If you want to be free of me, Elizabeth will remain legitimate. She will be your heir until that Seymour wench produces a boy."

Her acrid grin was like a dagger into the gut. "I cannot be sure that she is mine."

His spouse trembled with a horrible indignation that propelled her to climb to her feet and close the gap between them. "How dare you disparage your own child, Henry? She was conceived after our return from Calais, where you took my virginity and saw the white sheets stained with blood. God and you are my witnesses that I was _a true maid_ when you bedded me for the first time! In England, we were always together, and we spent many nights together. Furthermore, Elizabeth is a Tudor through and through, although she has my eyes and spirit."

"Indeed, her hair is like my mother's and mine."

Artfully, the queen applied another tactic that appeared to be working well. "You do not believe me that I've always been faithful to you. Let it be so. But you cannot lie to yourself that Elizabeth is not yours. To deny her paternity means to doubt your own virility."

A long, tense silence stretched between them, lengthening almost into a lifetime.

The reminiscences about his first time with Anne flashed through his head. When Henry had returned to his rooms after the banquet in honor of the French king, he had found there a naked Anne. After disrobing himself and joining her in the bed, he had kissed and caressed her with a lingering gentleness, worshiping the feel of her soft lips that parted for him. Her words spoken back then echoed through Henry's consciousness like a whisper of nothing, for Anne had failed in her main promise: " _Now, my love, let me conceive, and we will have a son_."

Images of their coupling flickered in the monarch's mind. They had kissed wildly, almost violently, bruising each other's lips and gasping for air. He had taken Anne with all his passion and love, primeval and vehement, colored with his expectation for a precious son out of her magnificent body. She had not become pregnant on their first night, but soon after their return from Calais, her womb had been blessed with the fruit of their amorous endeavors. To the monarch's dismay, Anne had later deceived him and birthed him a daughter, but he remembered the resistance upon entering her sanctum of feminity. _I did see the blood on the sheets_ , he recalled.

Her claim about her virginity was a true one. "Yes."

"Henry," she addressed him gently, rewarding his hostility with artificial softness. "You might hate me, but our Elizabeth… She is too small to suffer from the stigma of bastardy. Have our union annulled while keeping her legitimate: Archbishop Cranmer may declare that we entered into our marriage in good faith. I shall say nothing against it and disappear from your life forever."

"Very well, Anne," he acquiesced after a tense pause. "I'll spare your worthless life, but you must depart from my kingdom. I do not care where you will go." His features twisted into a truculent scowl. "Elizabeth cannot be under your deleterious influence. I shall not allow you to poison her innocent mind against me. I do not want you to plot behind my back either."

"To be separated from my dear girl?" Swallowing her sob, she croaked with resignation, "Well, if she remains a princess of the blood, then you have my consent."

He nodded. "Cranmer will bring you all the papers soon."

As their gazes locked, the monarch screwed up his face in disgust, as if her mere presence carried the stench of a gutter. He then pivoted like a savage whirlwind and stomped to the exit.

Her steady voice halted him as Anne affirmed, "Before you go, perhaps you should hear one thing. I lied to you, Henry." As he swiveled to face her, she taunted in a sing-song intonation, "I said that I loved you, but I lied. I was untrue. Untrue with many."

Was she confessing to her crimes after all of her desperate, staunch denials? The words erupted from his mouth before he caught them. "That is a lie!"

Her falsehood aimed at hurting her tormentor. "Indeed, you took my virginity. However, later, I was with all of them." Her voice rose to a mechanical growl, a vocal nail drawn down the chalkboard of her life. "With half of your court, guard, grooms, with stable hands, look for your life at every man that ever knew me, and wonder if I did not find him a better man than you!"

Dashing to her like a hyena running to an antelope, the ruler slapped her hard across the face and shoved her to the floor. "You whore!" It was the first time he had handled her roughly.

She staggered back and fell, but swiftly rose. She glared at him like the Goddess Athena who was furnished with a suit of armor and weapons. "Such rough handling of your own wife! Well, I should not be astounded. Your version of love – I doubt you know what real love is – has always been the bashful selfishness of a spoiled brat who considers women his toys."

"Traitor!" His loathing was so intense that a sheen of sweat burst out upon his brow.

Her belligerent eyes brightened with a prophetic light. "Nevertheless, Elizabeth is yours, and you will see her grow. Get a son off that pale, hypocritical harlot, and hope that her weak brats will live! But my girl shall reign after you! Yes, Elizabeth, the daughter of Anne the Whore and Henry the Tyrant obsessed with sons! She will be a greater ruler than any king of yours!"

"No!" The monarch shrank away from her, as if she had just cursed him.

Climbing to her feet, his spouse promulgated, "Queen Elizabeth! The most illustrious monarch who has ever ruled England! My daughter shall usher the country into a Golden Age!"

A profoundly shocked Henry blinked, for once his voice forsaking him. At this instant, his visceral, primitive animal abhorrence for Anne surpassed that of the Trojans for the Greeks who had besieged the city of Troy throughout years. Mingled with this feeling was his regret that he could no longer send her to the block for saying the things which couldn't be true, for his angelic Jane would definitely produce his golden prince. _Now I crave to spill the whore's blood as much as never before, not even when Charles apprised me of her misconduct,_ he fumed silently.

"Leave England, you witch!" enjoined the ruler. "You will never see Elizabeth again!"

In the most sarcastic tones, she answered, "As Your merciful Majesty commands."

His wife sank into a deep, gorgeous curtsey – the far-famed Boleyn curtsey. She moved with inimitable and mocking grace, and yet with an air of sinister resolve.

"Go to hell, Anne Boleyn!" Her husband then stormed out of the room.

§§§

As the door slammed behind him, Anne fell onto the floor beside the bed in a miserable heap, a tempest of sobs assailing her. "Oh God! Why is he so cruel to me?"

 _Henry Tudor, I hate you more than I've ever loved you!_ The queen yearned to plunge the lance of vengeance into the monarch's black heart, to compel him to suffer as much as those sentenced to crucifixion do. In his attempt to inflict inhuman suffering upon her, he had deprived her of everything she loved so dearly: of her brother and daughter, as well as of a chance to ever see the girl again. Anne's soul withered like grass in the fall, her heart and soul hollowed out.

"What should I do now?" asked Anne herself, forcing herself to stand up. It was not time for weakness. "Where will I go if he wants me out of England?"

Cascades of memories penetrated Anne's tormented consciousness, the panorama of all her romance with King Henry, his infidelities and broken promises, her every weakness and every failure, and, finally, the grand finale in the Tower. Then the events of the last few minutes repeated themselves, impersonally and spectacularly, in her brain, and Anne could again hear her mind-blowing tirade about Elizabeth's glorious future, praying that they would be prophetic.

The topic of Anne's impending exile was clawing at the fabric of her mind that stretched, thinned, frayed at the edges. And, suddenly, from beyond the mists of time, pictures of the distant past deluged her mental universe with tremulous hope. In her early adolescence, Anne had lived at the most glittering court in Christendom, where she had obtained a stellar education and acquired refined manners, which had assisted her in the quest for Henry's attention and the English crown. Furthermore, years ago, Mary Boleyn had lived in France as well, and their father, Thomas Boleyn, had served the English ambassador there. Warmth, which was now flooding the queen's breast, came from the remembrance of the golden life Anne still missed with every fiber of her being, a life of happiness and almost freedom, without the shackles of Henry's warped love.

"France," she whispered, her eyes blazing with the vivid inner fire blazing in her soul. "I became the person who I am at the French court. Perhaps I will find my place there again."

In the span of a few moments, the queen's ladies returned to the chamber. They all wore ambiguous expressions, wondering what the monarch had talked about with the prisoner.

"I'll satisfy your curiosity," Anne conceded as she settled on the bed. "The king has spared me. Our marriage will be annulled soon, and he will remarry. I'll have to leave England."

"God be praised, Your Majesty!" they chorused, relief written all over their faces. Even though most of them disliked Anne for various reasons, they did not wish her dead.

The queen saw that the question about her ejection from the country was hovering over their lips. She wasn't inclined to discussing it, especially not with them, as they reported all of her actions to the Constable of the Tower, who informed Cromwell about everything.

"You are all dismissed." Anne shut her eyes, as if to meditate in silence.

The sound of their receding footsteps was like the sweetest music to her ears. She yearned to be alone, for none of her ladies loved her with silent sympathy that needed no words. Stillness contained universal truth about human beings in all times and all ages, and, at this moment, Anne enjoyed it more than anything else. Her battle would continue in France, and maybe it would last for many years to come, so she needed respite from the unrelenting stress of life.

* * *

 **_June 10, 1536, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France_**

"The former false Queen of England is coming!"

"Her union with King Henry has never been valid!"

"Yet, after the annulment, the man still calls it a marriage in good faith!"

"After losing all her titles and wealth, she has been expelled from England!"

The approach of the legendary Anne Boleyn to the François I gallery was watched by a horde of amazed nobles, grooms, enquires, and serving men, who had all assembled in the corridor. Unfazed by their stares tinged with awe, the former Queen of England glided along the floor, as if a song resounded in her head, her body swaying to the tune only she could hear.

"By Heaven! What brings the Lady Anne Boleyn here?"

"Has she come to France to bewitch His Majesty, King François?"

"The whore just craves to have another king in her bed!"

"The Boleyn girls are whores infamous above all!"

"King François will ride the Lady Anne very often!"

"Her gown is rich despite her current predicament!"

"She will just humble herself to our liege lord, for she has nowhere to go."

"Most likely, Lady Anne wants to become Queen of France!"

The audience issued versatile comments on the lady's raiment, their murmurings hovering in the air like whisperings of the ill-natured spirit. They would be forever adding gossip about her to the existing mud of rumors. Nonetheless, despite the contrary attitude of the spectators to her, all those who commanded a complete view of the scene were in spellbound fascination.

Notwithstanding her relative impenetrability, one of their comments hurt Anne. _My sister Mary… I should have found her in England before my departure. Once King François ripped her reputation into tatters beyond repair._ Most likely, he would not act so towards Anne. Many years had elapsed, and he must have matured since then. After all, the French ruler had been most gallant and kind to her in Calais, even though later, he had not acknowledged her as Queen of England.

Inwardly, the unfortunate woman was shuddering. Anne's scarred soul was kneeling with its upraised hands on the imaginary altar, praying as fervidly as possible to Jesus Christ, who was her last hope. Her relatives had died or deserted her before or during her downfall, as if she had been infected with leprosy. Nobody heard her internal wails, her emotions were tangled – fright, despair, and hope alternating like the squares of a chessboard. _If King François doesn't permit me to stay here, I do not know what I will do. I do not even have enough money to travel._

A young courtier opined, "Madame Boleyn is a desirable woman with style and elegance, although she no longer has the social status she possessed while whoring herself to King Henry."

Fascinated, several men stared at her, and Anne smirked to herself. In spite of her internal misery and her lack of money, her outfit was truly stunning thanks to her generous mother, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn nee Howard, who had sent her favorite child some of Anne's old clothes from Hever Castle. At court, nobles competed to outshine one another, and it was important to wear the finest things. At the same time, Anne felt as if she were the most remarkable and pathetic female figure that stood out at the magnificent French court: remarkable, because of her exotic appearance, her strong, smart character, and her idiosyncratic life story; pathetic, because all her energies and intelligence had been directed in a false channel, while her world had crumbled to pieces despite her extraordinary personality and her many talents.

Being stationed on the summit of the lofty stairs, two cavaliers called Anne a whore and hurled other insults at her. She spared no one any glance, moving gracefully, like a long-legged seabird feeding on the shoreline. Her pulse beating like that of a trapped bird, Anne passed through a gallery, hung with white and blue cloth of gold, and emblazoned with the Valois coat-of-arms.

The herald announced, "The Lady Anne Boleyn."

Anne walked in the royal inner sanctum, for King François always kept the key from this gallery with him. It had been built to link the royal chambers with the Chapel de la Trinité.

In the blink of an eye, a slender feminine figure appeared at the end of the gallery. The woman was enveloped in a seductive gown of scarlet cloth, cut indecently low and trimmed with a profusion of diamonds and rubies. Her stomacher of gold, set with precious stones, gleamed like the flame of lust in all of its carnal glory, a golden girdle tied around her waist. Her features of uncanny perfection and the delicacy of her complexion would have dazzled anyone, but there was no noble beauty of truthfulness, kindness, and fidelity in them.

The fire from the woman's emerald eyes blazed ferociously into the air and exploded with thunderous force as she hissed, "What does that Boleyn strumpet want from my king?"

§§§

Upon entering the gallery, Anne Boleyn fell deadly silent, as if she had stepped out of the world and into an unknown realm. She watched the light stream through the stained-glass window at the opposite wall, the memorial of the French grandeur she had always admired.

A familiar French baritone, confident and melodious, flowed like liquid gold, intuitively finding the right notes. "Madame, you have become more beautiful than Helen of Troy."

Swiveling, Anne stared at the French monarch, who stood near the fireplace, adorned with his personal emblem of a salamander. Sinking elegantly into the deepest curtsey she could perform, she demurely cast her eyes down. Her heart swooped into the pit of her stomach.

She uttered in flawless French, "Your Majesty, I thank you for meeting with me."

"Rise." François approached her.

Grappling with nervousness, she hesitated, her legs wobbling. He gently raised her from the curtsey, and at his touch, she felt so light that she feared she would blow away.

As their gazes intersected, two depthless pools of liquid gleamed in the opaque shade of Anne's sorrows. In the past, when François had encountered Mademoiselle Boleyn in Queen Claude's apartments, his amber eyes, affable and clever, had often observed the young Anne with inextinguishable interest. Throughout years, Anne had not forgotten his attention to her.

Recollections of her companion's recent losses arose in her mind. "Your Majesty, accept my most sincere condolences on the passing of Dauphin François and Queen Eleanor."

Grief shadowed his face for a split second before the sovereign of France bridled his emotions. "Thank you, my lady. My eldest son's death happened two months earlier. It was a very hard blow to France and our family. He was only eighteen… when God called him home." He heaved a funereal sigh – deep, tormented, heartfelt. "He never recovered from the years he spent in the Spanish prison." Another sigh wafted through the room. "The official mourning period is not over yet, but I shortened it according to my son's dying desire. In his benevolence, my dearest François did not want us to mourn for him for long."

"Now your son is in a better place." Anne was not surprised in the slightest that the king had not mentioned Eleanor of Austria's death. All knew that he despised the late woman because he had been forced to wed her so as to secure the release of his two sons from the Spanish captivity.

King François had not changed since their meeting in Calais in October 1532. His oval face arrestingly masculine, his stature imperial like that of a Roman Caesar, he was the paragon of chivalrous, yet somewhat saturnine, handsomeness. His countenance benevolent, sardonic, smart, and jovial all at once, its only imperfection was the long Valois nose. His strong forehead pointed to the indomitability and stubbornness of his spirit, his thin, sensual lips to his amorous disposition. François' amber eyes were twin maelstroms of supreme intelligence and noble vivacity, and they also exuded his amicable warmth, his exquisite humor, and his refined grace.

Towering over others like a mythological Titan, the French ruler was the epitome of sheer magnificence. Ornamented with diamonds and sapphires, his doublet of purple velvet was slashed with black silk, wrought with gold. His thick, straight, chestnut hair fell over his ears from beneath the blue velvet toque, encircled by a black plume. Over these habiliments, he was clothed in a mantle of cloth of gold lined with sable. His hose of black silk highlighted his long, muscular legs; his girdle, as well as the handle and sheath of his poniard, were studded with gems.

After a moment's pause, Anne continued, "Perhaps I'm in a better place as well, although I'm not in heaven, unlike the late dauphin."

The monarch soothed, "Trials are our greatest mentors, and they make us stronger."

Obviously, he had deciphered the expression in her eyes. Embarrassed that he had noticed her vulnerability, she schooled her face into blankness. "Brave people never scorn an opportunity, if it comes dressed in trouble's apparel. But I fear that it is no longer my case."

He asked forthrightly, "Why did Henry do it?"

At the mention of her former spouse, her universe broke into numberless shards. "I was unable to give him a son. A leaf has no power to resist when the wind blows."

François tipped his head. "The Tudor temper is worse than a hurricane."

Anne sniggered bitterly. "Also, it is an axe severing the heads of innocents."

He gestured invitingly at her. "Let's take a seat."

They seated themselves into matching throne-like armchairs which were adorned with carved shields, on which were engraved the fleur-de-lis of France on an azure field and the Valois escutcheons. A circular, low rosewood table stood between their armchairs.

With an art-worshiping gaze, Anne examined the gallery which everyone admired. Few were permitted access into the place that was considered almost the king's sacred sanctum.

This abode exuded a breezy, amorous aura of serenity, created by the skilled hand of Rosso Fiorentino, one of the many Italian painters who were patronized by King François. The walls were decorated with stunning sculptures of ancient gods and goddesses, as well as figures of nymphs in languorous poses. Between them were placed fabulous frescoes, framed in stucco and depicting the Gods of Mount Olympus, some of whom resembled the Valois ruler's features. Anne counted twelve frescoes in total, each enhancing the grandeur of the gallery's highly ornate design.

"Few come here," François broke the silence. "It is my favorite place in the palace."

"But you agreed to meet with me here."

His expression evolved into compassionate seriousness. "As soon as I received your note. I did not want to make you wait for long. Here we can speak away from the eyes of court."

"Thank you, sire." She dithered as to how to voice the reason for her visit.

The French king smiled ever so slightly. "I suspect why you are here."

An anxious Anne blanched to the whiteness of marble. "Your Majesty, I do not intend to impose upon your hospitality any longer than necessary. All I ask is to let me stay in France."

Leaning back in his seat, he latched his gaze on to hers. "One friend in a storm is worth more than a thousand friends in sunshine. You can stay at my court, Madame."

Buds of hope stirred in her breast. "Can it be true, sire?"

François mock-complained, "You are such a ravishing, but pitiless creature! Why are you being so unfair to me, _mon ami_? You do not trust the word of the Knight-King, do you?"

A deluge of ethereal lightness inundated Anne, as if the weight of her troubles had been lifted off her shoulders. Several years had elapsed since she had last led such a charming and witty discourse with a gentleman. After their Elizabeth's birth, nearly all of her interactions with Henry had been laced with ire, disappointment, censure, and hatred. The shrill sound of trumpets braying the insults Henry had heaped upon her regularly was deafening in her ears.

Her lips curled into a grin. "I'd rather have your word than all the treasure of the world."

His smile was scintillating. "Then, Madame, I'm your knight in shining armor."

"Indeed, sire." The hypnotizing inner light brightened her eyes a shade.

François sauntered over to the walnut cabinet beside the opposite wall. He poured out two measures of a fine burgundy wine, returned to his armchair, and passed one to Anne.

Aristocratically drinking wine, the monarch perused Anne as a connoisseur of feminine beauty. Slender and exquisitely proportioned, with her bottomless eyes like two grottos of black water and her long, raven tresses cascading down her back, she typified the goddess Artemis, who governed hunt, animals, and wilderness. Her exotic features emanated an aura of cryptic, pristine nature, her dark eyebrows attractively penciled and sharpening her unusual looks.

His spies had reported to François that Henry had stripped his former wife of all her titles and confiscated most – if not all – of her estates and wealth, giving her only a small pension from the English treasury, which was barely enough to sustain herself in exile.

Nevertheless, today Anne was accoutered as sumptuously as a queen or one of the richest woman in a realm. Her dress was of azure brocade ornamented with emeralds, her stomacher of black taffeta shimmering with gems. Studded with diamonds, a girdle encircled her waist. Over her gown, she wore a surcoat of violet brocade wrought with gold. An enchanting headdress of goldsmith's work, as well as a massive sapphire necklace and matching earrings, perfectly fitted the ensemble of a sea temptress. Anne's jewelry was so expensive that the sale of one of her earrings would have allowed her to live in luxury for quite a long time.

 _Henry is an utter idiot. How can a man reject such an alluring and intelligent lady?_ Such were François' musings about this woman's situation. His ambassador, Antoine de Castelnau, had written him that Anne's second miscarriage had sowed strife between her and Henry. But never had he imagined that his English archrival would go to such lengths in his quest for freedom. The other man's desire for a male heir was understandable, but that could not justify murder.

The ruler settled back into his chair, a goblet clasped in his hand. "Henry still considers himself an enlightened monarch." With a faint echo of his satiric humor, he continued, "Yet, he has not learned one simple thing. A man should treat his lady love like a flower to let her blossom and be happy. Affection, benevolence, respect, and tenderness altogether are the sun for her."

Anne recalled François' famous quote she had heard on a banquet she had once attended as Queen Claude's maid-of-honor, more a playmate to her young mistress because of her tender age. Why didn't Henry view women as flowers and treat them with care, dignity, and respect? Her former spouse had respected Anne throughout their courtship, but her intelligence, willfulness, and headstrongness had ceased being a boon to him after their wedding.

Mannerly, she sipped wine. "Turn your face to the sun, and the shadows fall behind you."

His response was direct. "Perhaps only if a woman turns to Henry."

"By the way, your comment about royals was prophetic, sire."

He arched a brow. "What do you mean?"

Anne repeated the advice he had given her in Calais. " _The station you are to occupy is not an easy one... It is much easier to have nothing than to have everything. If I had not been born to be king, I certainly would not have wished that fate upon myself or anyone else_." A sigh fled her, so deep that it approached to a groan. "I should have listened to you back then."

"That is all true and works in life. I also implied the perils of being Henry's queen."

The lady's contemplation was that of someone who had lost their purpose and wandered along the serpentine paths of life. "That Trojan hero, the son of the Goddess Aphrodite." She took a swig of wine, her favorite Virgil's work on her mind. "Yes, Aeneas! In Virgil's Aeneid, he is one of the few Trojans who were not killed or enslaved after the subjugation of Troy by the Greeks. Afterwards, he struggled so much to fathom his destiny for so long. I'm like Aeneas!"

The monarch drained the contents of his goblet. "Eventually, Aeneas unraveled the riddle and set out to fulfill it. He became the first true hero of ancient Rome and an ancestor of Romulus and Remus. You might have a similar great fate to that of Virgil's Aeneas."

She had relaxed a notch. His benign exterior and his unparalleled intelligence seemed formed to captivate those whom he addressed. "Every event is fated and determined to occur."

In the manner of a theologian, he averred, "God reveals His will for us through His word. As we read the Bible, He makes a certain verse stand out more than the rest. The Almighty may also guide us through others or speak to us through a persistent inner voice."

As if she could see the vault of heavens, Anne veered her gaze to the plafond painted by the best Italian masters. "What is my divine purpose? Why did such awful woes befall me?"

"Madame, you are alive and out of harm's way. Your daughter, Elizabeth, is still Henry's heir." He paused to let his words sink in. Truth be told, he did not think that Anne's union with his English counterpart was valid, but he wouldn't say that aloud. He then continued, "That is all that matters now. The Lord will guide you to opportunities which fit your circumstance."

She drained her goblet and set it on the table. "You are right, sire."

With an air of brilliance and pride about him, the ruler articulated, "I've ushered France into a new era of glorious enlightenment." He stilled for a split second. "Yet, I feel that there is something else I have to do in my life. I'll stay encouraged until that purpose is fulfilled."

§§§

All of a sudden, the door burst open. Breathing as though he had run a long marathon, Anne de Montmorency, Grand Master and Marshal of France, stormed inside like a blizzard.

"Your Majesty!" Montmorency then apologized, "I'm sorry for disturbing you!"

The monarch furrowed his brows. "How dare you intrude upon me in my sanctum in this terrible fashion, Monty? You are my close friend, but even you are not allowed such rudeness."

The marshal dropped a low bow. "I apologize!" He then swept a bow to Anne, looking at her with puzzled discomfort, for he had not anticipated seeing her with his sovereign.

Anne remembered the unexpected guest easily as she had seen him in Calais with the King of France. He was the famous Anne de Montmorency, one of the most powerful and wealthiest French nobles and the monarch's boyhood friend. Though not attractive, he had quite a remarkable countenance, which indicated strength and courage. His rich attire of brown doublet, wrought with gold, and hose of the same material stressed his arrogant and martial deportment.

As her eyes locked with Montmorency's, the man suppressed a grimace.

As the guest looked at his sovereign, Anne was awash in relief. _He dislikes my presence here. He is an important person, for his valor and military skill made him Marshal of France, so he might be dangerous to me_. Yet, Montmorency's opinion did not matter to her, for now she had the king's protection. She would have to live quietly without interfering anywhere. Hopefully, she would be able to experience a calm enjoyment of the general bounties of Providence, which had saved her against all odds for some reason, in company with a good conscience.

"So?" Slight irritation colored the ruler's tone.

His subject's breathing was still labored after sprinting through the hallways. "War! We have just received news! The emperor attacked Marseilles last week!"

A shaken François shot to his feet. "How could that happen?"

Montmorency's narration was absolutely shocking. "Carlos V, Holy Roman Emperor, has accused Your Majesty of Queen Eleanor's murder. He says that you planned to dispose of his sister for years, but found the courage to perpetrate the evil deed only now. He has scurrilously maligned you as a royal libertine who annihilated his loyal wife to marry his _maîtresse-en-titre_."

"Oh good heavens," gasped an agitated Anne, her idle hands in her lap.

His visage paling to an immaculate white, the monarch stuttered with outrage, "That is all a pack of blatant lies! It is the most errant absurd I've ever heard! Eleanor died of consumption, and everyone knows it! And I'm not marrying my mistress! No one will believe this farrago!"

"He merely needed a reason to attack us," pointed out his subject.

"Convene Privy Council meeting today," urged the king.

The marshal bowed. "I'll see to it." He then spun on his heels and exited.

His gaze sliding to his guest, François pronounced mildly, "Tough days, _la belle Anne_."

Anne transformed into the brave Arete from the Homeric poems. "Fight for your country, people, and throne. No one can stop your destiny. Isn't that what Your Majesty told me?"

He jested, "To save France, I'll kill the Goddess Eris, Madame of strife and discord."

As he smiled at her cordially, Anne experienced a feather-brush of appeasement over her physical essence. "Have patience and let things happen in God's timing."

Her eyes alight with curiosity as she peered at François, she recalled the uncanny words of that astrologer. " _Two kings! One is your pain and ruin, the other is your joy and life_ ".

 _Another ruler in my life! King François is willing to help and protect me, thanks be to God._ Questions blazed through her head like a sacred fire of something wondrous. Was that some stupid blether? If not, what could that mean? Which rulers had been mentioned? The tragic end of her romance with Henry suggested that the English monarch was Anne's _pain and ruin_ , but she did not dare admit that her meeting with François could result in something good for her. Her thoughts churning like a raging ocean, Anne floundered in a welter of eddying confusion.

With a bellicose air about him, in the voice of an accomplished general, the sovereign of France proclaimed, "God is on my side, and that is all I need. Our best days are ahead."

"I shall pray for you, sire," Anne promised, and he nodded his thanks.

François voiced his sincere promise before easing himself into his armchair. "Madame, do not worry. Regardless of the war with Spain, you will have my protection."

"Thank you." Anne smiled at him, and he smiled back.

 _Did my arrival in France doom the country and her king to destruction?_ A blend of dread and compunction assaulted her, but she crushed it, for it was not her fault that the Spaniards had declared war on France. Mired in military filth due to the emperor's chicanery, the Herculean hands of fate were pulling François de Valois and Anne Boleyn together, like two halves of an invisible universe. Perhaps there was some divine sense behind such unusual twistings of her path.

* * *

 _Many thanks to **EvilFluffyBiteyThing** , who assisted me in the editing of this chapter._

 _King Henry reluctantly spared Anne's life due to protests of the English people against her execution. However, she was expelled from England after having been stripped of all her titles and wealth. He ejected her to the continent to separate her from Anne's beloved little Elizabeth in order to take vengeance upon his former wife for her alleged crimes and betrayals._

 _Having nowhere to go, Anne journeys to France and requests an audience with King François. I tried to make her first meeting with him interesting. Their conversation foreshadows some future events in her life, especially in the passage where they talk about Virgil's Aeneas. In the end, we have a cliffhanger that teases you what the outcome of the Franco-Spanish war will be._

 _Dauphin François, known as François III of Brittany, was the eldest son of King François I and Claude of France. In history, he died on the 10th of August 1536, as he never recovered from the horrible years he spent in captivity in Spain._

 _In Greek mythology and in the Homeric poems, Arete is frequently associated with bravery, but more often with effectiveness. Anne is going to be very courageous and bold in this AU._

 _Eris is the Greek goddess of strife and discord. Her name is the equivalent of Latin Discordia, which means "discord"._

 _Virgil gives Aeneas two epithets in the Aeneid: pius ("pious"), which conveys a strong moral tone, and pater ("father"), which enforces the notion of Aeneas' divine hand as father and founder of the Roman race. Anne does have to fulfill some divine mission in this story._

 _Please, leave a review of this chapter. Reviews always encourage an author to update and make them happy! Thank you very much in advance._

 _I also have a poll on my profile! Please, have a look and vote! Thanks!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	3. Chapter 2: Defeat of the French

**Chapter 2: Defeat of the French**

 ** _July 11, 1536, the town of Arles, Provence, France_**

"Today is a cursed day," muttered the King of France under his breath.

The air was oppressive with the pungent odor of battle. Once inhabited by the Romans, the Provencal town of Arles was steeped in history. Today, a grim event of the utmost importance colored its history with the crimson hues of bloodshed. The well-preserved remains of a Roman arena and the surrounding valley were littered with corpses and marked with devastation.

On a hill far from the town's walls, King François sat on a black stallion, caparisoned in blue silk, its harness embroidered with gold. In front of him, the battlefield was horrifyingly red, stained with the blood of his many soldiers. A warm breeze brought the scent of decay and death to his nostrils, and he sniffed his nose in a blend of disgust, guilt, and bereavement.

Cardinal François de Tournon, who was effectively France's foreign minister, reached his king. "I'm sorry for intruding upon Your Majesty. We must still keep you out of harm's way."

Veering his gaze to his advisor, the monarch broke into a fit of nervous laughter. "Your Eminence, what does my life cost if most of my men were slaughtered today?"

Tournon pointed out, "It happened only because we were severely outnumbered."

Slowing his horse into a slow walk, Anne de Montmorency, Marshal of France, addressed his liege lord. "We did not learn about the emperor's deceit. I cannot live with myself after today, and I humbly implore Your Majesty to show me some clemency."

"It is not your fault, Monty," soothed the king.

As the marshal stopped near his sovereign, his head dropped in dismay. "It was our duty to ferret out that Ferdinand von Habsburg would join Emperor Carlos. If only we had–"

François interrupted, "All of our spies knew nothing, but I blame myself."

Although the King of France had gathered more than ten thousand men in Arles, nothing had been known about the swiftly approaching, huge forces of the emperor's brother. By the time the first reports had been received, Ferdinand's troops had already joined Carlos' armies in the vicinity of the town. It seemed that the outcome of this battle had been highly influenced by the God Ares, who had caused the violence to be singularly bloodthirsty.

At first, the Imperial cavalry had been making only little raids here and there, doing the French little harm. The Valois forces had not been by any means impeded and moved towards the town of Arles, where King François had planned to crush his foe. This place was of strategic importance: a great many roads, some nine or ten, intersected there, so the French army could easily alter their tactics and diverge from this point, should a further march be necessary.

King François had given the orders for the concentration of his columns to the north from Arles. The French troops had pushed forward towards the presumable field of victory. Anne de Montmorency had cooperated with other military generals, and today at dawn, the royal forces had promptly engaged the enemy. The vanguard artillery had advanced to open fire on the front of the Spanish, and, having bivouacked the preceding night on a ridge nearby, Claude d'Annebault had rushed to their support. Immediately, a ferocious battle had unfolded.

The divisions commanded by Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, had been the first of the infantry to become involved. After having reconnoitred the position, François had charged into the battle with the rest of the infantry, as if he were invincible. The king's battalions scattered themselves over the opposite sides of the defile surrounding the town from the north.

King François had stopped in the midst of the fighting men. His armor shining in the beams of sunlight, he had shouted loudly, "I'm like a salamander! I shall survive all fires!"

Having heard the scream of his French archrival, an incensed Emperor Carlos had struck the pommel of his saddle. His cry in Spanish had boomed across the whole area like a menacing thunder prophesizing death. "I want that Valois douchebag to weep with tears of blood!"

The Spanish had attempted to stop the advance of the French by an intermittent double fire of musketry. The defile, narrow and steep, and the savage attack of Montmorency's cavalry had been able to lock the Spanish in the area. Forming the line of conflict to the north of Arles, at a distance of about a mile away, the battle had lasted for four hours with varying success. Then an odd lull had occurred, during which both sides had supervised their formed lines.

All of sudden, new divisions had commenced arriving from the south, advancing towards the King of France's batteries. Very soon the position of the French forces, already battered by their merciless opponents, had turned perilous in the extreme. The Imperial hordes, bearing the standard of Ferdinand von Habsburg, had launched a bellicose assault on the French. All those who had opposed the attackers had soon started falling back, and the slaughter had been terrible.

Encircled in the defile, France's forces had been outflanked upon either hand. Thousands of muskets had filled the air with a dense, acrid smog that, on a windless summer day, shrouded the battlefield like a pall of ruin. The pitiable cries of the dying and wounded had aroused the spirit of vengeance in the surrounded French, who had made their last stand like demons. The resistance of the French had been exceedingly brave, but the Imperial numbers had exceeded them twice.

King François had been able to leave the defile only thanks to the noble efforts of Anne de Montmorency, Cardinal François de Tournon, Phillippe de Chabot, and Claude d'Annebault. So thick and overwhelming had the storm of Carlos and Ferdinand's assault been that Chabot had been seriously wounded during their hasty escape. All the others had perished in the sanguinary fog of fire, blood, and swordfight in the defile – injured, captured, or cut to pieces.

Montmorency's protest snapped the king out of his reverie, colored with the dark hues of his failure. "We have lost today, but we will recover our losses. Your Majesty led the battle as a competent chief general, and there were no errors in your judgment."

"Unlike the Battle of Pavia," the monarch muttered.

The marshal shook his head. "You are criticizing yourself in vain. The odds were against us both today and at Pavia. We had the chance to win that battle in Italy, but today we could not."

The king groaned as if from pain, his vitality drained, his strength sapped. "Perhaps. But that does not make things easier. France has been orphaned today, though not crippled."

The cardinal's voice ceased their discourse. "Your Majesty, we must escape now. Right now! Otherwise, we risk being discovered by the emperor's men."

"What?" the King of France growled in exasperation. "How can a knight run away from the battlefield when his fallen comrades have not been buried?"

"We must," insisted Tournon. "If you are captured again, France and everything will be lost. If the emperor has you in custody for the second time, he will mete out a slow, lingering death to you, given that he aspersed you as the murderer of his sister, Eleanor."

"Your Majesty, let's leave," Montmorency concurred.

Letting go of the reins, François balled his hand into a fist. "We have started off badly, but circumstances were such that we could not win today. I admit freely that I was not the most exemplary military man in youth, but today I've done all I could. At present, we have to retreat."

Claude d'Annebault mounted the hill. "The emperor has enjoined to find Your Majesty. He dared announce that his sister's soul is calling to him to avenge her death on your orders."

François had a mellow temper. Yet, at this moment, a gust of berserk fury coiled and clawed up through his body. "How can that blasted Habsburg scoundrel proclaim such a crop of brazen lies? He knows that I would never have physically harmed any royal! I am not him!"

Anne de Montmorency gritted out, "I myself would have killed that Spanish scoundrel! The more he would have suffered, the better!"

"He is scum," spat Cardinal de Tournon. "May God punish him!"

"We must flee," urged Annebault, trying to catch his breath. "Right now!"

Nodding, the King of France asked, "Has Philippe been taken to safety?"

"Yes, my liege." Annebault had organized the transportation of a severely injured Admiral of France from the battlefield. "We will escort you to Mazères."

Encircled by the men from the Scots guard, the royal cortege galloped across the valley and into the woods. They did not rest until the town of Arles had been left behind, each feeling as if the setting sun were falling from its anchor in the sky to burn them with shame for their defeat.

§§§

Two men of approximately the same height stood on the other side of the battlefield. The sun sank behind the forest. A hint of an afterglow spread across the darkening firmament.

"Let's go further away from here. The stench is horrible."

"Indeed, brother. My nostrils are burning from the stench."

An authoritative male guffaw rippled through the air. "The battle was amazing!"

They came closer to the soldiers who waited on a bank of the River Rhône. Yet, the two of them kept distance from the others; their personal guard surrounded them while staying at some respectful distance. The huge Imperial camp was located on the other side of the river.

The first knight wore armor with diamond-studded borders, with the 'KD' garniture on the raised haute-piece of the left pauldron, which signified _'Karolus Divus'_ , or _'Divine Carlos'_. The second one was encumbered in armor adorned with the heraldry on the chest – the imperial double-headed eagle surmounted by a crown, which signified his status as King of the Romans.

All around them, the victorious Spanish, German, Flemish, Austrian, Bohemian, Hungarian, and others cheered their sovereigns – Emperor Carlos and King Ferdinand, their cries deafening like a bass drum. The joined armies of the Habsburg brothers consisted of many nationalities.

A dozen trumpeters, with silken bandrols fluttering in the breeze, arrived from the Imperial camp. Blowing loud flourishes, they proclaimed the victory of the House of Habsburg.

Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, appeared on his white stallion caparisoned in red damask. A party of halberdiers, who had pennons streaming from the tops of their pikes, followed him. Alba was a Spanish noble, general, and diplomat, who had long obtained the great favor of Carlos V. Alba was considered one of the most effective generals of his generation.

The Duke of Alba neared the two men, dismounted, and swept low bows to each of them. "Congratulations on your victory over the French! They were all doomed after we had encircled them in the defile. However, the King of France and his entourage managed to escape."

Emperor Carlos lifted the visor of his helmet. "That is bad, for I hoped to have that Valois miscreant caged today." He tittered. "He ran away like a craven!"

Alba apologized, "I'm sorry for my failure to capture him."

The emperor laughed off the matter. "Perhaps that Valois libertine has become a coward as he aged. He is not as young as he used to be – he is only slightly older than me."

His younger brother – Ferdinand, King of Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary, as well as King of the Romans – disagreed. "You do not know that for a certainty, Carlos."

"Why do you think so, Ferdinand?" Carlos throttled a surge of announce.

Ferdinand flicked his visor up. "Never underestimate your enemy and never assume the best until you have got them absolutely defeated. Isn't it what you told me years ago, Carlos?"

"It is." The emperor lauded, "You have always been a talented pupil."

 _I am not your pupil, Carlos,_ Ferdinand growled silently. _Once I was just a second heir who depended entirely on your affection for me. Now I'm a king with my own domains and a second man in the Holy Roman Empire._ Carlos had made his brother King of the Romans in 1531, having designated Ferdinand as his heir apparent to the empire. The other lands where Ferdinand ruled as a monarch had been obtained through his marriage to Anna of Bohemia and Hungary.

Separated from Juana of Castile in early childhood, Ferdinand had grown up in his mother's homeland, unlike Carlos who had been brought up in Flanders. This, coupled with Ferdinand's personal charm and Spanish manners, had made him much loved in Castile. Wherever Ferdinand ruled and lived, he became popular, and twice this had caused Carlos to make his brother relocate.

Ferdinand articulated, "You have taught me a lot, Carlos. Including caution. Foolish rush in where angels fear to tread. We must substitute courage for caution."

The emperor placed a hand upon his brother's forearm. "The art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the foe's not coming, but on our own readiness to receive him. The Battle of Arles has demonstrated that the French are not ready for an out-and-out confrontation."

Ferdinand objected, "Give them time, and they will be prepared better. We have not yet made our position in France solid, although we can march north."

Carlos spoke as a competent military general. "To fight and conquer is not supreme excellence. It consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting."

"Naturally!" exclaimed Ferdinand. "Caution is a must for us!"

The emperor eyed his sibling cordially. "We have done a great job today, my dear brother. Congratulations to us both! I assure you that we will have great success in France."

Ferdinand shrugged. "Perhaps, Carlos. Time will show."

The Duke of Alba, who had silently listed to them, moved the topic back to the Valois ruler. "Your Imperial Majesty, the next time, I'll focus on catching the King of France."

"Don't worry about him now, my friend." Carlos' tone was most affable. "There will be plenty other cases for you to show off your bravery, which everyone is aware of."

"What to do with the French prisoners?" quizzed the duke.

Carlos' response was bone-chilling. "Kill them all."

"As you command, my liege." Alba's eyes were hard, but astonished.

Bowing twice to the two monarchs, Alba rode away with pomp.

Ferdinand grimaced, glad that his sibling didn't see his disgruntled expression. "Carlos, you cannot murder prisoners of war – you ought to ransom them all."

The emperor raked his eyes over the corpses that littered the field. "Why should I?"

Ferdinand insisted, "Any general should comply with a code of chivalry."

Carlos hissed, "Not with the French! Not with that Valois buffoon who got rid of Eleanor!"

The emperor's brother recollected, "I was taught to hate everything French since childhood, although I've never understood the reason for such mortal enmity. Yet, I've been interested in French culture, for it is truly magnificent." Carlos glowered at him, but Ferdinand continued, "I came to France to avenge the murder of our sister Eleanor at the hands of François."

The head of the Habsburg family proclaimed in a sibilant voice, "That lewd mischief-maker must pay for the assassination of our Eleanor and for her unhappiness. Imagine, Ferdinand: he disposed of her to marry his mistress – Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly."

A cauldron of animosity boiled in Ferdinand. "And for that François will pay."

"We shall make him suffer, brother." Fervency colored Carlos' voice. "The strength of my hatred for him is proportionate to the strength of my love for our dearly departed Eleanor."

"True." At last, Ferdinand removed his helmet. "But you also despise François because he is one of the very few monarchs who refuses to acknowledge your supremacy over him."

The emperor put off his helmet as well. "The Habsburgs must rule the world."

Ferdinand remarked, "We are not gods, Carlos."

The sun had set, but the two brothers saw each other well due to many fires made by their men nearby. The sons of Queen Joanna of Castile and Habsburg Archduke Philip the Handsome contemplated each other with genuine affection. The hazel eyes of Carlos, identical to their father's, and the pale blue pools of Ferdinand, which he had inherited from their mother.

Carlos embraced Ferdinand heartily. The younger brother responded in kind.

As they parted, the emperor uttered in a low voice, "Never betray me, Ferdinand."

Ferdinand was offended. "Have I ever given you a reason to doubt my allegiance to you? I always did what you enjoined me to do, and what is best for the Habsburg family and for you."

The emperor soothed, "You are my beloved and loyal brother."

Ferdinand stomped his feet. "What is wrong, then?"

"I do not want something or someone to drive a wedge between us. I must ensure the unity of the House of Habsburg, and your fealty to me is aiding me to accomplish this goal."

"We didn't grow up together, but I still adore you, Carlos."

"I treasure that a great deal. I love you too, Ferdinand."

Nevertheless, Ferdinand recalled, "After your arrival in Spain years ago, you exiled me to Low Countries because the people wanted me to be their king. I grew up in our mother's home country, and they knew me too well – I was dangerous for your reign. Later, again because of my popularity, you sent me to Vienna and made me Archduke of Austria." His lips curved into a grin. "I'm fortunate to have grown to love Austrian customs and the German language."

The emperor pulled off his gauntlets. "Where are you going with this?"

Ferdinand clasped his helmet as if he were about to fling it at his sibling. "I've always submitted to your will, even if I disliked it. Yet, at times you use my affection against me."

"Ferdinand," drawled his elder sibling with displeasure. "You need to rest."

"Carlos," Ferdinand spelled out in a similar manner. "Your Imperial Majesty!"

After sketching a half-mocking bow, the King of Hungary swiveled and walked away.

A moment later, Ferdinand nevertheless paused and turned to him. "I do not approve of the executions." He put a hand to his chest. "It goes against my moral code that I have here."

Carlos glanced away, at the blood-stained field. "Chivalry is incongruent with war."

"I do not think so." Ferdinand headed to his troops from Bohemia.

The guards, who stood near the Habsburg siblings, shared nonplussed glances.

 _Ferdinand! Always be loyal to me and our family,_ Emperor Carlos threw his gauntlets to the ground. _I do not forgive betrayal, little brother. Not if you ever commit it. Perhaps not even my beloved wife Isabella._ Again, he examined the carnage, delighted to see the slaughtered French and yet sad every time his gaze found Spanish morions. The emperor did not feel guilty for lying to Ferdinand about Eleanor's death – the Valois family were still their enemy.

* * *

 ** _July 30, 1536, Château de Roquetaillade, Mazères, Bordeaux, France_**

Several solemn people trudged through the many dimly lit corridors which threaded through the fabric of the royal residence. Their gait was too heavy for courtiers, as if a ghostly presence of mortality were weighing them down. There was a dismal air about the palace that had originally been built by Charlemagne, the first King of the Franks, on his way to the Pyrenees.

"How is the king, my brother?" queried Marguerite de Valois.

Anne de Montmorency sighed grievously. "Your Majesty's arrival is a pure blessing! Our sovereign has been so crestfallen that it is hard to imagine any kind of good future for France."

"His Majesty has shut himself away," responded Cardinal François de Tournon. "He lacks the mental energy to sort things out. At the same time, we must act as soon as possible."

Montmorency muttered, "At least we were able to evacuate him from the battlefield."

"I'll try to revitalize my brother's spirits," Marguerite promised.

Tournon opined, "Only you can do this, Madame."

As they slowed briefly, the Navarrese queen glanced at frescoes portraying scenes from _'La Chanson de Roland'_ , telling how Sir Roland, the great Charlemagne's intrepid and loyal nephew, was tricked by the traitor Ganelon into encountering a Muslim army at Roncevaux.

Marguerite commented, "This chanson has long become the national epic of France. Sir Roland is truly an iconic figure in the medieval era and its minstrel culture. On the way back to France from the Pyrenees, the Franks were attacked by the Saracens and fought with outstanding valor, but they were outnumbered and were eventually killed. Roland died a martyr's death."

"No, Your Majesty," the cardinal burst out. "Our king will triumph over evil."

Montmorency vowed, "We shall keep our liege lord safe at any cost."

Marguerite crossed herself. "Of course. It is a difficult time for us all." Her best instincts communicated that her silent words of prayer were a self-fulfilling prophecy.

§§§

His head buried in his hands, King François sat at the desk heaped with books, ledgers, parchments, and papers. The whirl of cankerous emotions in his chest was so very powerful that it sucked him down into the depths of grief; his mind would not function normally.

Though depressed, the monarch was not without knowledge of his future. His troops had been trounced by his Imperial foe, while he himself had narrowly escaped capture. He, the King of France, had been too weak and allowed his adversaries to kill thousands of his soldiers, and, in doing so, he had failed his country, his countrymen, and his kin. Outmatched only by his fatigue, François' self-disdain was so deep that it was imprinted upon his consciousness.

Images of the battle of Pavia of 1526 flashed in his mind, ravaging him like a beast. In the course of the day, thousands of his men had lain dead or bleeding upon the ground, while he himself had surrendered to the emperor. The Battle of Pavia had been lost partly due to his own hubris and his foolhardy decisions, as if Atë, the Greek goddess of mischief, delusion, and ruin, had made him, the heroic Knight-King, commit a folly that had resulted in the deaths of too many.

Tears of shame stung his eyes, but the French ruler didn't move to brush them away. _And now the Battle of Arles… What have I done to anger the Lord so much?_ Such were the musings of the monarch who was sinking deeper and deeper into despair. He had not only lost the battle, but also been called injurious names – _'the murderer of the sweet Queen Eleanor'_ , _'a queen-killing libertine'_ , and _'the most incompetent Valois king_ ', as the Spanish disparaged him.

Finally, François looked at the ceiling with pleading eyes, as if addressing the Almighty enthroned in heaven. "God, what should I do? Every creature is sanctified by prayer. In your divine benevolence, I beseech you to give me strength and show me the right path."

Someone knocked on the door, making the ruler half jump out of his skin. All he wanted was solitude and rest, as if only loneliness could purify him from the self-loathing tendencies.

At another knock, the king barked, "Who is it?"

The door opened, and Cardinal de Tournon informed, "Your Majesty's sister is here."

"Let her in." This was the only good tidbit in the past week.

A moment later, Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, entered and called, "Brother!"

Dressed in a brown riding habit, trimmed with ermine and smeared with dust, she still looked every inch a princess of the blood. She shut the door and commenced her walk, her pace measured, her posture straight and regal. Arranged in ringlets on the temples and in a bun on the nape of her head, her glossy, long, chestnut hair shimmered with diamonds, woven in the sheen of her chevelure. Her clever amber eyes and her long nose attested to her Valois ancestry.

"Margot!" The monarch jolted to his feet. His booming voice echoed off the high ceiling, cascaded down the walls, and returned to its source. "Margot!"

Marguerite rushed into his arms. "François! You are free and alive!"

Spontaneously, the King of France embraced his beloved sister, pressing himself to her tight, as if he were a baby rooted to his mother's breast by need. For some time, they froze motionless in this position like two statues of entwined lovers in an ancient temple.

The Valois siblings were more devoted to one another than most brothers and sisters. During Marguerite's frequent sojourns at the French court, she assisted her brother in working on state affairs and held the government in her competent hands in case of his absences. On many state documents, she was referred to as _'King François' very dear and well-beloved only sister'._

As he disentangled himself from their embrace, he told her, "I'm glad to see you, sister. You are the only person in the world who can comfort me now."

She made the sign of a cross in the air. "God protected you in that battle, brother."

"Let's take a seat; then we will talk."

François and Marguerite settled into two matching gilded armchairs, decorated with carved lion's heads on the back. A walnut table, carved with a salamander symbol, was positioned between them. Rich tapestries, depicting the Battle of Formigny, cascaded down the walls.

She viewed her brother from top to toe with concern. Evidently, he had lost much weight, his features tired and pale, like a death mask, with the brown eyebrows arching above the long Valois nose. His apparel was sumptuous, but somber, consisting of a doublet of black brocade, wrought with threads of Venetian gold and silver, hose of the same fabric and ornamentation, and toque of black velvet. The flamboyant François de Valois was a spectre of his former self.

"You are not taking a good care of yourself, François."

"I do not care about myself," he snapped irritably without looking at her.

"What will you do now?" Other words stuck in her throat like the twigs of a bird's nest. Obviously, the endless hell of torment was concealed behind his absent-mind countenance.

His troubled gaze swung back to his sister. "I have no idea."

Her voice as firm as granite, she announced, "On the way from Navarre to you, I have been thinking hard of our dreadful situation. I think I know a way out for us."

His hands fidgeting with the collar of his doublet, the monarch of France asked curiously, "Which plan has your pretty and intelligent head come up with?"

She was worried about his reaction. "I am not sure you will like it."

He grinned. "Keeping such company as the Knight-King and not sharing with him your ideas? Perhaps you are itching to find someone more worthy of our intellect than me."

One of the things she loved in her brother was his ability to laugh off troubles. "I don't think I could, even if I had wanted to. You are the most intelligent man I've ever met."

His grin widened. "Perhaps, sister. Now tell me, finally, how I can win."

Her hands lazily caressed a ring on her finger. "Sometimes, you have to gamble in a way that is colorful, dramatic, and theatrical all at once. The world is like a game."

The ruler inclined his head slightly. "The mission of a monarch is to make the best work as the administrator and defender of their kingdom. They take an educated gamble when choosing a political course the country will follow or an alliance to establish with foreigners."

"Then marry Anne Boleyn and make her the symbol of the anti-Habsburg alliance which would consist of the Protestant and religiously tolerant countries."

Her statement lanced through him like a saber strike. A flustered silence ensued.

With a vigorous shake of his head, he jeered, "You have developed a warped sense of humor that has mingled nicely with your perverted attitude to France's salvation."

"Thank you, François. Your own wit seems to have been impaired by your afflictions."

"How could such an outrageous idea cross your mind?"

With a funereal air of fatality about her, Marguerite articulated, "The end of France! The end of the Valois dynasty! The end of King François I's reign! Do you want this to happen?"

"Of course, I don't!" returned the king, scowling at her.

The Queen of Navarre stood up and started pacing the room. "Then, you must accept the horrid reality, François. To survive in the battle with the Habsburgs and expel them from France, you must establish alliances with the German States and other Protestant countries."

He looked like a cornered rabbit, a king caught in a trap. "I tend to agree with you."

She strengthened her point of view. "How will you establish these alliances if you are on the sinking ship? Will the German Lutheran princes ally with the defeated King of France?"

The French monarch bolted to his feet and plodded to a window. The sky turned a blood red as the last vestiges of the sun slipped behind the hills. Instinctively, he associated the color crimson with the recent vanquishment of his troops by the Imperial hordes. _Is the sinking sun a harbinger of the death of France as an independent kingdom and the demise of the Valois dynasty? What does fate have in store for my country and me?_ His mind raced with questions.

Marguerite's sharp, steel-edged voice punctured his silence. "Nobody collaborates with the losing party unless it can offer something valuable in return."

Swiveling to face her, an agitated François harangued, "When under attack, no kingdom is obligated to collect permissions from allies to strike back. But if this country is losing, her rulers have to implore their allies for assistance. As reputation affects how likely your partners are to trust you and work with you, a ruler must think about what you kind of deals they will propose at the negotiation table." He threw his arms up in frustration. "What can I offer them?"

His sister approached him and took his hand in hers. "My dearest brother! You must offer the adversaries of your sworn enemy a Protestant symbol of unity against the Habsburgs."

His mask slipped, revealing his inner turmoil – fear of losing his country combating with the uncertainty as to the best course of action. "To use Anne Boleyn's role in the English reform to my advantage? That would be a good idea if she were not a foreign convicted queen."

"A former queen," she amended.

"A convicted one," he emphasized as he freed his hand from her grasp.

A long silence followed as they pondered the situation once more.

Annoyed, Marguerite returned to her chair. "The whole of Christendom knows that Anne is innocent. The people of England know this, which is why they rebelled against Henry."

"Indeed so. Only the riots saved her from Henry's madness."

The king's sister smiled. "Brother, you have been _falsely_ accused of murdering Eleanor of Austria. Anne has been _falsely_ charged with betraying Henry with several lovers." She let out a laugh. "This makes you a great couple, for you have both been aspersed."

The monarch slanted a glance towards the window. The shadows of the evening were now falling fast upon the city of Mazères, and the firmament was like a curtain of dark silk.

Marguerite made another attempt at persuasion. "England is not your ally, brother. Henry is waiting for the result of the war against France before choosing the side. He yearns to see your armies annihilated. But if you happen to win, he will congratulate you and offer you an alliance."

François crossed to the chair which he had previously occupied. "To marry Anne Boleyn would mean that there will never be normal relations between England and France."

She refreshed his mind. "Once you called Henry Tudor a turncoat because of his betrayal of your treaty. He perpetrated a plot against you during the Italian war of 1521-1526. At Cardinal Wolsey's suggestion, he stealthily paid a lot of gold to Emperor Carlos when it became clear that Spain would win. By doing so, Henry indirectly funded your captivity at Pavia."

"Henry's courtesy to me was false." A flood of abhorrence towards his English archrival inundated him, just as it did every time he recalled those events. "I shall never forgive Henry."

"Brother, do you need a mercurial ally like him?"

"No," he agreed at last.

"Now you must protect yourself with reliable allies."

King François climbed to his feet and strode to the table, where a decanter stood. Filling a chalice, he gulped wine, as if it could make the tormenting memories flee like a hamadryad before a dull faun. After finishing off the goblet, he trudged to the desk and sagged into an armchair.

"My captivity in Spain," uttered the sovereign of France tightly, controlling himself with a mammoth effort. His gaze latched on to his sister's eyes as he continued, "You of all people know what and how I suffered at the emperor's hands." The hatred for the Habsburg family rolling through him in waves, his voice fell to a raspy whisper. "You came to Madrid to negotiate my release, so you must remember what happened to me back then."

"You almost died." Her voice thinned and broke on the last word.

All of those remembrances were monumental events in King François's life. "After I was transported from Italy to Madrid, the Spanish treated me with a callousness unfitting my kingly position. I was locked in that old, dilapidated castle for many days. As a result, high fever struck me in the early days of my incarceration, threatening to speedily burn me to death."

Marguerite recollected, "Initially, Emperor Carlos did not want to meet with you."

More memories of those ignominious days slipped through the tall mental barriers that the king had placed on those events. "Finally, Carlos deigned to grant me an audience. He came to me out of fear that a foreign ruler would pass away while being in his custody. He was also afraid that my death would lessen his victory over the French. Barely concealing his malicious joy at the sight of my grave illness, the emperor pledged to release me soon."

"But it was all a lie," hissed his sister.

The amber glare of King François locked with her identical pools of turbulent fury. At this moment, the two siblings abhorred the Holy Roman Emperor more than ever.

François quoted his words from the old letter he had written his mother from Spain. " _Only honor was not lost back then_." His bitter laugh was like a blast of trumpets, jarring and shrill, perhaps an omen of more awful things to come. "A week ago, I was almost taken captive in my own kingdom. My enemies are on French soil, and even my honor was besmirched."

Now Marguerite was as depressed as he was. "Don't dwell on those horrible things. We must keep up optimism and hope instead of trampling them down with our own feet."

He flicked his melancholic gaze to her. "That is true, Margot. But there is no pain greater than the present humiliation of France and her king at the hands of the emperor."

Her confidence being restored, the Queen of Navarre asserted, "Now we must gather all our strength and courage to prevent France from being subjugated by the damned Spaniards."

Assailed by an impetuous deluge of inner strength, François was suddenly invigorated. "I must save my country," he stated, his eyes blazing with determination.

"Excellent. But if you do not want to wed Anne, then I'm afraid France is doomed. Those who supported us are currently deserting us like rats running away from the shipwrecked vessel."

He emitted a sigh so deep that it seemed to have come from the bottom of his universe. "But how can we be sure that she will consent to this outlandish arrangement?"

"I will talk to Anne," promised the king's sister.

"She will not agree." Compelling himself to display a calmness he did not feel, he leaned back in his armchair. "I remember the love I saw in her eyes for Henry when we met in Calais in 1532. She was married to him for three years – well, I do not consider their union valid, to be honest, but she does not need to know about it. Her romance almost led her to the scaffold."

"Anne's personal story is tragic, brother."

"Will she be eager to tie herself to another king? I think not."

Marguerite's confidence was astounding. "Come now, François! She will not reject this offer without considering it. Of course, Henry's betrayals traumatized her like nothing she had ever experienced before. But she is a smart and practical lady, who understands politics."

"And?" he emboldened.

"Anne is the perfect source for sage counsel. Her intelligence could have been such a boon to Henry if he had appreciated it, and they could have ruled England together." She stilled for a moment to let it sink in. "There are compelling reasons why she will acquiesce to become your wife, even though she would not have done it under different circumstances."

"Name them." His voice indicated his skepticism.

She rose to her feet and strode to a table set with utensils such as plates, goblets, and napkins. Having poured out wine, she walked to her brother and handed the goblet to him.

"Drink it. You will feel better, then."

Nodding his thanks, François took a long, fortifying sip. "So, Margot?"

The Queen of Navarre settled back into her chair. "The greatest test of courage on earth is to bear defeat without losing heart and mind. Anne failed in England, but I can hardly imagine a strong, brave, and indomitable woman such as Anne losing herself in the gloom of grief forever. If she has the opportunity to get back what she lost and to take revenge, she shall seize it."

"By marrying me?" He swallowed painfully, conscious of the truth of her words.

"Yes. That would be the best way for her to extract vengeance upon Henry."

The French ruler drained the contents of his goblet and set it on the table. "Do you really want Anne and me to live in a sham of a marriage, based on her desire to avenge her woes and on my need to salvage France? Would that not be cruel to Anne after what Henry did to her?"

Laughing at him, the Navarrese queen reminded, "François, you once told me that _you can fall in love only with the most extraordinary and beautiful woman_ , _who would bewitch you more than Helen of Troy captivated Paris_. You said that love for such a woman would be the beauty of your entire life, your sunshine that makes you both blossom, the most brilliant joy in your world, the togetherness of your hearts, and the triumph of heavenly blessing over earthly filth." She grinned. "Have I quoted your flowery speech correctly, brother? I think I have."

He was taken aback. "Do you mean that Anne may be this woman?"

Marguerite's mind floated to her husband – Henry II d'Albert, King of Navarre. Despite him being seven years younger, the couple loved each other dearly. Henry had accepted that his wife spent most of her time at her brother's court, although their relationship was growing strained lately. _Henry d'Albert and I have been happy together. My brother can also find his soulmate._

"True love is a heavenly gift. First best is falling in love. Second best is being in love. The moment you are in love you can touch the stars without reaching out to the firmament above. The sensation of poignant serenity gives you the placidity of paradise on earth, which alternates with ecstasies of insane gaiety. You feel like you are falling, floating, flying, spiraling down and up."

Her poetic oration lifted his flagging spirits. "Your artistic tongue might elate even the mood of a dying man. You wish I could experience it, don't you?"

Her eyes twinkling, Marguerite stated, "Of course, I want you to be happy, brother. You have never loved a woman, but it is not your fault." She tittered as she recalled his official mistress whom she despised. "Surely, Anne de Pisseleu is not your soulmate, don't you think? She does not own your heart despite your fascination with her uncanny beauty and her stellar education."

"I love her in my own way," claimed François.

"No, you do not. You are only lusting after her."

A frown puckered his brow. "I respect the Duchess d'Étampes, and so should you."

Ignoring his reproach, she insisted, "I know that you are capable of loving a woman with all your heart and soul. You just needed to meet your own Helen of Troy." Winking at him, she assumed, "Only a unique woman such as Anne Boleyn can be your Helen."

He voiced his opinion of his notorious English guest. "Anne Boleyn is not a conventional beauty. Her fiery temper is a formidable force to reckon with, and it must also be a vehement passion burning brighter than the sun. She is one of the smartest and most alluring woman I've met. Her eerie, exotic glamour might inspire dozens of men to move heaven and earth for her."

If she believed something wholeheartedly, her confidence was like a shining star. "Even if your marriage is not initially based on affection, I have no doubt that you will fall for her – your feelings will eventually create love. Maybe, something wonderful can come out of this union."

"You are being too optimistic, Margot. Only God gives true love to His Children."

"Literally, I see the benevolent hand of fate in Anne's arrival in France. She asked you for help, François. You could have refused to house her at your court, but you didn't."

François peered at her in open-mouthed amazement. "Do you believe that I could have thrown a damsel in distress out of my realm when I was the only one who could help her?"

"Of course, the Knight-King would never have harmed a woman!"

The monarch grinned, for a moment real amusement dancing in the vivid amber caverns. "Are you serious about all these amorous things? And about my marriage to Anne?"

His sister made a valiant effort not to laugh at him. "I shall see to your union with Anne Boleyn. It will not be that easy to persuade her, but I will succeed."

"I do not think so. That is why I'm glad that I will not present this deal to her."

"Let me at least try, brother. We need this political marriage for France."

François moved the topic to its closure. "If she ventures to be my ally, I'll wed her."

For a short time, Marguerite examined the room's tapestries. "The Battle of Formigny of 1450 was a turning moment in the Hundred Years' War. The destruction of England's last army in Normandy paved the way for the conquest of the remaining English strongholds there." She emphasized, "It is a good omen that we can see such scenes on the walls. We shall win!"

"I pray we will, sister." His tone emphasized the appreciation of her comment.

Their gazes locking and brightening a notch, they chorused, "For France!"

§§§

Night had fallen, and a peaceful stillness reigned supreme, sublime and consoling. Lights glimmered in the château, and stars dotted the velvety black heavens. And after a leisurely dinner, King François and Clément Marot, his unexpected guest, decided upon a stroll into the gardens.

"Clément," the ruler addressed the poet. "Thank you for coming to Mazères."

His companion answered, "Your Majesty needs the support of those who care for you."

"Yes." Arrogant and conceited, François was not someone who ever appeared vulnerable. Yet, he released such a deep sigh that it wafted like a breeze around them.

Sensing his discomfort, Marot stated, "Whether you are a king or not, the best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart."

His sovereign let out a laugh. "True! Yet, no one must be a slave to their emotions."

An athletic man of average height, Clément Marot was almost the king's coeval. His noble countenance was handsome and intrepid. On his lofty brow was stamped unquestionable intellect, and his hazel eyes had a melancholic expression in them. His raiment was rich, but somber, consisting of a doublet, hose, and a cap of black satin, worked with threads of gold.

King François was delighted to have Marot, who was his and his sister's favorite poet, at his side. Having sent the poet to her brother, an exhausted Marguerite had retired to her quarters. For the most part, Marot resided at the court of Navarre in the past year, being patronized by Marguerite, but he had nevertheless traveled to his sovereign whom he profoundly adored.

The two men reached a large terrace that opened a panoramic view of the stretches of the landscaped parkland, with riverside walks and countryside beyond. The terrace was enclosed at one end by several fountains, and at the other by an immense loggia and a belvedere in the form of a triumphal arch. Drenched with moonlight, carved arbors, a bejeweled aviary, and colorful abundant planting in the park – these glories of southern France – shimmered silvery white.

Stopping in a shaft of moonlight, Clément Marot looked around. "A faint freshness is in the air. The bees are humming among the flowers in flowerbeds. Blackbirds are whistling among the trees. The chief part of one's happiness consists of natural beauty like this!"

However, the ruler commented in the melancholy accents, "Indeed, beauty is the promise of happiness. But it is what also leads you to desperation."

"That is a blackbird," observed Marot. "Your Majesty, look at it! We can see it well in the moonlight! See it there on the bush with red blossoms. It is all black, except its bill, and that looks as if it had been painted in white. Or does it tell you something else?"

The king guessed his train of thought. "There is always light in the darkness."

"Precisely," the poet confirmed with a smile. "You are the light of all lights!" His voice rose to a crescendo of confidence. "You are the hope of France in this darkest time!"

Those royal amber eyes lit up with nascent hope. "Nature is powerful! One might derive their strength from it. Then your work becomes a dance with light and the weather. And then it takes you to a place within yourself, and you can discover new facets of your character."

"And where does it take you, my liege?"

Staring at the loggia in the distance, the monarch meditated, "Sometimes, you get the best light from a burning bridge. If part of your realm was burned to ashes by your worst enemy, you can use the light from this devastating fire as your beacon in the darkness while searching for your right path. Perhaps our defeat at Arles might function as the Lighthouse of France, just as the ancient Lighthouse of Alexandria guided ships into the city's port at night."

"Even this horrible defeat might lead France to greatness. Have faith, my liege!"

Moonlight illuminated the entire terrace, and their faces glowed white like ivory.

"The lives of these birds are simple." François' voice vibrated with emotion. "They are happy to play with each other at night. But the life of a king is far more complicated."

In response, the poet read aloud one of his own poems to Madame Anne de Beauregard.

 _Where are you going, Anne? Let me know,_

 _and teach me now, before your departure,_

 _what I should do, so my eyes might hide_

 _the raw regret of a sad heart in torment._

 _Yet I know how, no need to inform me._

 _You'll take it with you; I give it to you._

 _Take it, to render you free from sorrow,_

 _that should be far from you, in that place;_

 _and since lacking a heart one cannot live,_

 _leave yours with me, and so say farewell._

As he finished the verse, Marot effused, "Now, Your chivalrous Majesty! Imagine that this poem is for another Anne whom you must marry to save France from that Habsburg devil."

This time, the monarch's temper spiked. "You have overstepped the boundaries. My sister and I love you, but you have no right to pry into our affairs."

The poet feigned embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry, Your dearest despondent Majesty!" He sketched a bow. "If life throws you a few bad notes or vibrations, like the defeat at Arles, do not let them interrupt and alter your song of chivalry and your hymn for the glory of France."

"You are forgiven," said his sovereign mildly. "I know you mean well."

"A man's character is his fate. You are the Knight-King! Take your destiny in your hands!"

Clément Marot flourished a series of elegant bows and strode towards the loggia.

The ruler watched sparrows taking bath after bath in the fountains and ruffling their feathers joyfully. The blackbird, which the king had observed before, burst into a ripple of throaty notes, and a nightingale answered with a cry of liquid trills, whistling melodiously, yet mournfully. The nightingale wept until the blackbird responded, and the sparrows paused in their ablutions.

France's future stretched out in front of King Francois like a golden carpet unrolling for him to step onto it and fulfill his destiny. _The nightingale bemoaned as if lamenting its woes until the blackbird cried in unison. But they will not groan unceasingly for a lifetime because now they are together. Is it about Anne and me? Is it a good omen?_ The monarch's spirits pulsated with an odd celestial and intense fervor at the thought of having Anne Boleyn as his spouse.

* * *

 _I hope that you liked this chapter. The French were defeated by the joint forces of Emperor Charles and his younger brother, Ferdinand, but King François escaped. Now François has to save his country, nation, and throne from the Habsburgs, and to stall the invasion – he needs Anne Boleyn to accomplish his noble goals._

 _The descriptions of Carlos and Ferdinand's armor are taken from historical sources. Both Habsburg brothers are important in this story, but Ferdinand will be a more meaningful person in François' life. Now the relationship between the two Habsburg brothers is affectionate, but not ideal, but things might change._

 _The Song of Roland (in French 'La Chanson de Roland') is an epic poem based on the Battle of Roncevaux Pass in 778, during the reign of Charlemagne. It is the oldest surviving major work of French literature, which exists in various manuscript versions and was very popular in the 12th to 14th centuries._

 _The scene where François and Clément Marot watch birds in the dark garden has a symbolical meaning for the king and his future wife. Symbolism plays an important role in my writing. It produces impact on the reader by attaching additional meaning to an action, object, or name._

 _In Greek mythology, Ares was the Greek god of war and one of the Twelve Olympians, the son of Zeus and Hera. Atë was the Greek goddess of mischief, delusion, ruin, and folly. Mythology personified Atë as the daughter either of Zeus or of Eris._

 _Please, leave a review on this chapter. Reviews always encourage an author to update and make them happy! Thank you very much in advance._

 _I also have a poll on my profile! Have a look and vote! Thank you in advance._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	4. Chapter 3: A Political Arrangement

**Chapter 3: A Political Arrangement**

 ** _August 5, 1536, Chapel of the Trinity, Château de Fontainebleau, France_**

Reverent silence reigned in the magnificent chapel that bathed in a hazy, orange glow of numerous candles. A former monastery chapel before becoming a palace church during the reign of King François I, it was at the heart of the grandiose history of the French royalty.

Attired in a gown of white velvet, embroidered with diamonds, her stomacher of red silk, Anne strode down the nave, brushing the floor with a footstep as light as that of a fawn.

She reached the first row of the wooden pews and stopped. The interior's somberness was enhanced by fabulous frescoes depicting the life of Jesus Christ. Each holy representation followed another according to its importance, beginning from the vault and down towards the walls and the floor. Her gaze fixing on the statue of the Virgin Mary, she took a seat.

"Elizabeth," Anne uttered the syllables related to her beloved little girl. "If only you could be with me in France… If only I had not been banished from England…"

She balled her hands into fists as her mind drifted to King Henry. _The worst pain comes from the betrayals of our loved ones. He betrayed me and our dear girl in the worst possible way._ She could not wrap her head around how Henry had swallowed Cromwell's and Suffolk's lies about her alleged adulteries. Her pain was perpetual: it had seeped into her bloodstream, like lethal poison, eating her living entrails and hollowing her out until only her dry skin remained.

In France, she often woke in a frenzy, fearing that the monster of death had laid its grasp upon her. Afraid of darkness, she always slept with at least one candle burning in her bedchamber. She prayed that she would have the strength to overpower the ghosts of the past.

Yet, providence sniggered at her in the most bizarre manner. How could Anne recover from the past when she was about to commit the sheer insanity of marrying the King of France? Was she capable of playing the role of a dignified Catholic queen? How would she endure her life with the very man who had slept with her elder sister and defamed Mary Boleyn as a slut?

Shutting her eyes, Anne breathed out a sigh of terror and frustration. There was no sense in dwelling on questions she could not find answers to. She had already promised to Marguerite de Valois, Queen of Navarre, that she would become François' spouse and help them work against the Habsburgs. For some reason, the Moira Clotho had spun the thread of Anne's fate to be the Queen of France a mere three months after she had lost the Crown of England.

There was no way back for Anne. _Is it my destiny to run away from one king and to be tied to another for the rest of my life?_ She could not fathom why she had drifted to the coast of another royal matrimony. A large part of her wondered whether the Moira Lachesis had dispensed the thread of her life in this way to let Anne avenge her brother's appalling death and her own woes. Nevertheless, she dithered, her soul being as fragile as glass, and the callous world could crack or break it, if the winds of providence had happened to take a fancy to blow Anne's way.

The King of France's voice jerked Anne out of her reverie. "I've just spoken to my sister. In your apartments, I was told that you had headed to the chapel."

She rose to her feet from the pew and swiveled to face him. François was appareled in a doublet of tawny velvet, its placard embroidered with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and pearls. A baldric of balas rubies dangled from his neck, matching his hose and toque of red silk. Suddenly, embarrassment suffused her that her own gown was not as rich as that of other ladies at court.

With her eyes glued to his, Anne's hesitation evaporated. She would marry François de Valois in order to extract her vengeance upon Henry Tudor – that homicidal narcissist of a singular sort had merited her abject loathing. Against her will, she would lie in the King of France's arms on their wedding night like a lifeless clay doll, but afterwards, her body would never know a man's passion again. Anne would be alone for the rest of her life, surreptitiously dreaming of her ruined happiness in the dead of night like some crepuscular creature.

Curtseying to him, the exiled woman spoke whimsically. "If one is afraid of loneliness, then they should never marry. As I do not fear it, I've acquiesced to incessantly tolerate it."

Befuddlement tinctured his visage. "What are you implying, Madame?"

"You have my consent, sire."

His lips twisted into a rigid smile of disbelief. "You will marry me, won't you?"

"I will," she confirmed.

"Why?" He averted his scrutiny to the fresco of Christ's Ascension.

She did not reply straight away. Emitting a heavy sigh, she flicked her gaze to the stained-glass window above the altar, where saints and Old Testament prophets were depicted. Being a devout reformer, Anne held deep disdain for the corrupt Roman Catholic Church. Her repudiation of Catholic idolatry and some rituals, as well as the doctrine of intrinsic holiness was unequivocal, but she still liked stunning frescoes and multicolored stained-glasses in churches.

"I have my own compelling reasons." Her voice was quiet and melodious, like the distant sound of a lute. "I do not expect anything marvelous from our arrangement. You will be absolutely free to do whatever you want, including to have as many mistresses as you wish and sire as many bastards as you can. You have my blessing to continue your notorious escapades."

A spasm of hurt lanced through the monarch. "We are allies, nothing else."

She veered her gaze to him. "Of course. I'll become your symbol of unity against the Habsburgs. I'll aid you to work against them, as I'm yearning to see France as an independent, prosperous country. In return, you will assist me in proving my innocence after we vanquish the emperor." Her voice thinned to a whisper. "But there will be no marital relations between us."

An abashed François studied her, as if she were an antique painting. "It is good that you want to restore my war-battered realm to peace. But what else do you mean?"

In a voice layered with finality, Anne elaborated, "I was informed that after Your Majesty consummated your marriage with the recently departed Queen Eleanor, you never performed your conjugal duties again. That is exactly what awaits us in the future."

Something flickered in his eyes. "Do you wish us to lead separate lives, Madame?"

"Yes, I do, sire. I'm aware that the non-consummation of marriage is one of the possible grounds for annulment. Therefore, we shall have our wedding night, but nothing beyond it."

Her categorical statement hurt the ruler more than he could admit even to himself. "Are you certain you want to be my queen?"

"I am," answered Anne in a tone as hard as granite. "Your Majesty has two healthy sons to succeed you, so I do not consider it my duty to increase your progeny."

His eyes glimmered with amused recognition. "Your main motive is vengeance."

She resolved to be brutally honest with him. "Your guess has hit home. Once France is freed from the Spaniards and safe, you will assist me in my quest for justice."

François corrected, "In taking revenge on Henry."

"I do believe in God," she swore ceremoniously. Her eyes narrowed like a warrior demon guarding the gate of a temple. "Sometimes, vengeance is justifiable. Henry murdered my brother and separated me from my daughter. His lust for another woman literally killed me: he made me a shell of myself, and there is nothing left in the world for me." Lifting her chin defiantly, she hissed, "The hatchet of retribution shall fill the lives of my enemies with blood and tears."

The ruler approached the pew and settled himself there. Staring into space, he did not know what to say and how to react to her fervent declaration. Anne had just massacred his hope that their union could ever be something close to a more or less normal marriage of convenience. His heart pounced into his throat like a lion, and anger stirred in him at the thought that his English archrival had transformed this wonderful woman into a dark avenging angel.

At last, he turned to her. "Very well. I accept your terms."

"Then, we have a political arrangement."

The king scrutinized his unwilling bride. Her gown and jewels were far less sumptuous than those she had worn on the day of her appearance at Fontainebleau. Henry had stripped Anne of everything, so the pension Anne continued receiving from England was not enough to maintain her former luxurious lifestyle. _Yet, she looks so beautiful and almost innocent in her white gown._

His mind dashed to the wedding. "As it will take days to create your wedding dress, you can use something stunning from Claude's old royal wardrobe – of course, not Eleanor's. The seamstresses will need to adjust fit and length of garments. I recommend that you choose a gown of white silk or velvet worked with gold. The color white is a symbol of purity, as well as of new beginnings, of wiping the slate clean. Let's give everyone a message of your innocence."

Her fleeting smile was a rare thing these days. "Your idea about the color is great." She did not like that she would have to wear Queen Claude's dress, but there was no other option.

"You can use the Crown jewels thenceforth."

"You are most kind, Your Majesty." Deep down, she was profoundly amazed at his unforeseen generosity. She did not deserve it after talking to him in such an unladylike way.

He promised, "I'll permit you to worship your religion in private."

"Thank you, sire." This was so unexpected that her eyes widened fractionally.

"Now let me pray." He waved his hand, dismissing her.

Anne curtsied to him, and, casting one glance at the altar, crossed herself. She then strode towards the door from the chapel, feeling disconcerted and anxious. His voice halted her.

François' voice soared into the vastness of space. "The Lord disciplines us in earthly life. He also renders justice for the righteous and judgement for the wicked. Do not rebel against Him, for it carries consequences for us. Regardless of what you want, it shall be as God wills it."

Confusion as to the meaning of his speech flooded Anne. She was also surprised that he had spoken to her in his charmingly accented English. She echoed, "As God wills it."

As Anne exited, the silence was complete. Yet, it was so loud, for it had spoken once more about the desire of his bride-to-be to be perfectly independent from the king.

§§§

The monarch swung his gaze to the fresco of the Last Judgement. His eyes concentrated on the Jesus Christ as the Judge, who was surrounded by an inner ring of twelve paired roundels containing angels and the Elders of the Apocalypse. An outer ring consisted of twelve roundels, depicting the dead, appearing from their tombs, and the angels, blowing trumpets to summon them to judgement. At this moment, François' entire life narrowed to the Almighty's judgment.

Words of fervid prayer tumbled from his lips. "Dear gracious Lord, bless my country and me in this difficult hour. My people and I are all your creatures, and the work of your holy hands. Everything comes to us through the Holy Spirit, and I beseech you to help me save France."

As he finished his prayer, he crossed himself, but did not leave the chapel.

Thoughts of his wedding to Anne scattered about his consciousness, as he pondered his personal situation. He silently laughed at his sister's words about the possibility of his affectionate relationship with Anne. He did not love Anne Boleyn, but even this woman, consumed by hatred, intrigued, puzzled, and fascinated him, like no other did. _Dealing with Anne is more difficult than with the Persian fleet during the invasion of Athens in Aeschylus' brilliant tragedy_ ' _The Persians'._

Truth be told, Anne Boleyn interested the king far more than he expected and admitted to himself. While he had fought against the invaders in Provence, the image of Anne's graceful entry into his favorite gallery upon her arrival at Fontainebleau had resurfaced in his head from time to time. He had no clue as to how that vision had come to be fastened to his brain like a handcuff.

François sighed at the thought of his _maîtresse-en-titre_ , whom he had sent away to avoid any collision with her regarding his nuptials. Being beautiful like Venus, the Roman Goddess of love, beauty, and desire, Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, Duchess d'Étampes, was his chief paramour since his return from the Spanish captivity in 1527. He had spoiled her beyond measure and given her so much power that she had become too demanding, too overweening, and too clingy.

His womanizing tendencies were such that he was not faithful to whoever he romanced with. At present, the monarch also had other constant mistress – Claude de Rohan-Gié, dame de Thoury, who had caught his eye a year earlier. A damsel who had just stepped into adulthood, Claude had not yet been tainted by ambition, although she was curious about all aspects of life, government, politics, history, and, most of all, the arts. In contrast to Anne de Pisseleu, Claude was docile and even-tempered, yet gay and mischievous like a summer insect.

The former Queen of England and his two main paramours were all intelligent and well-educated. Nonetheless, François reckoned that any female creature paled in comparison to his future wife, who was the most unique woman he had ever met. Claude was not a type of person to interfere with politics, but the two Annes were amazons, whose initiatives could create a duel between them for the influence upon the ruler. But Anne Boleyn was not interested in him as a man, so there would be no competition for his heart and for a place in his bed.

The king's thoughts meandered back to the war. "God help me! Your will shall prevail."

Rising to his feet, King François made the sign of a cross and quitted the church.

§§§

Meanwhile, Anne Boleyn trudged through the hallways splendidly decorated and full of paintings and sculptures. These were the works of the first school of Fontainebleau which had been established by Rosso Fiorentino and Francesco Primaticcio. Some of these things, however, had been brought from Italy before Fiorentino and Primaticcio joined the Valois court.

"I'm in an artistic paradise," Anne said to herself as she admired her surroundings.

The fabulous frescoes on the walls exhibited an elaborate system of mythological symbols and allegories. All of the elegant objects of art showed strong influence of the techniques of the Italian Mannerism of Raphael, Michelangelo, and Parmigianino. The eccentric decorative motifs such as grotesques, putti, and strapwork were omnipresent in the château. The rich use of stucco moldings and picture frames added to the atmosphere of extravagant grandeur.

Anne passed through the corridor adorned with marble nymphs. Her gaze lingered on the frescoes of the Roman Venus and her son, Cupid, the god of desire and erotic love. Usually, she was in awe from such masterpieces, but today, the eroticism of statues and iconography made her blush, perhaps after the discourse with the king and her refusal to perform her wifely duties.

"How was your meeting with my brother?" This compelled Lady Boleyn to pause.

"Your Majesty." Anne lowered herself into a curtsey. "All went well, just as you want."

The king's sister requested, "We do not need any formalities." She came to her future sister-in-law and raised the other woman from the curtsey. "Address me by my name."

"I would prefer to remain formal, Madame."

"Why?!" Marguerite's voice was layered with hurt and astonishment. "We have known one another for so long! In several days, we will become both allies and sisters, Anne."

Her countenance perfectly blank, Anne viewed Marguerite from head to toe. The Queen of Navarre was accoutered in a fashionable gown of olive green brocade, her stomacher covered with gems. Over her gown, she wore a surcoat of silver satin embroidered with gold, and having loose, hanging sleeves. Her cap of emerald velvet was festooned with jaunty white feathers.

Although they had not seen each other for many years, the Queen of Navarre was still in her prime. Marguerite had aged exceedingly well, even though her heavy schedule of diligent work in her brother's and her husband's governments had frequently exhausted her. Her face looked all soft and smooth, for she had almost no wrinkles, and its alabaster color was so natural that it could have served as a painter's model. Marguerite was slender, and her figure beautifully proportioned, perhaps because she had not been almost constantly pregnant, like many other wives.

 _Marguerite and François both have somewhat a saturnine complexion,_ Anne observed. From beneath her cap, the tendrils of Marguerite's long, glossy, chestnut hair was streaming down her back in a stylish display of ringlets. Two brown pools of fire and vivacity – those Valois amber eyes which were the distinctive hallmark of the House of Valois-Orléans-Angoulême – held an unparalleled wisdom borne of experience and of a profound understanding of mankind and the world. The royal brother and sister resembled one another unmistakably in their features.

A tide of sentimentality swept over Anne as her mind journeyed to the days of her happy youth. Marguerite de Valois, who was also known as Marguerite d'Angoulême and Marguerite de Navarre, had invited the young Mademoiselle Boleyn to her literary circle, encouraging her to participate in discussions about theology, literature, philosophy, music, and the arts. Although for the most part, the teenage Anne had been tucked away in Claude of France's apartments due to the queen's almost annual pregnancies, Marguerite had taken a strong liking to the amicable and intellectually gifted Boleyn girl and frequently summoned Anne to her presence.

In Anne's early adolescence, Marguerite had been the main ornament of King François' court, while their mother, Louise de Savoy, had held the reins of power. Over time, Marguerite had become as prominent, formidable, and artful a politician as Louise, and the three of them had constituted the celebrated Holy Trinity, as they called themselves and as poets referred to them. Strong and brave like a female incarnate of a knight, Marguerite was also immensely intelligent and superbly educated, which made her one of the most remarkable women of the era.

" _La Marguerite des Marguerites_ ," Anne referred to the ruler's sister as her royal brother styled her fondly. "You have always been graceful of person, attractive of feature and abundantly so of personality, dainty in manner, as well as sprightly and active in intellect. Despite all of your numerous achievements, you are quite modest, and, thus, praised; you are also pious and amiable in disposition. You are truly a paragon of virtue in the depraved French court."

Sighing, Marguerite stepped to her. "Anne, it is not easy for you, and your past is hanging over you like the blackest night. But I swear that my brother is a good man."

Resolutely, Anne backed away. "Your Majesty, I'll be honored to be your sister-in-law and to help you save France. However, the friendship of royals is as fickle as their love, fluctuating constantly. Your affection for me might perish if I somehow displease your beloved brother. So, I prefer isolation to the prospect of perhaps being let down again."

A silent apology in her eyes, Anne quoted Clément Marot's eulogy in Marguerite's honor.

 _Entre autres dons de grâces immortelles,_

 _Madame écrit si haut et doucement,_

 _Que je m'étonne, en voyant choses telles,_

 _Qu'on n'en reçoit plus d'ebanissement._

 _Puis quand je l'ouis parler si sagement,_

 _Et que je vois sa plume travailler,_

 _Je tourne bride, et m'ébanis comment_

 _On est si sot de s'en émerveiller._

After curtsying to the Navarrese queen, Anne darted down the hallway to her quarters. Her abrupt departure cast a pall of dejection over Marguerite, and over what could have been a joyful reunion of the two women who had liked each other genuinely throughout many years.

* * *

 _ **August 10, 1536, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France** _

Surrounded by his entourage, King François strolled through the corridor, occasionally stopping to chat with someone. But the corridors were almost deserted, as if everything had died and been forgotten. There was no gossip in the corners, no laughter and chatter in hallways, as well as no drama, scandal, and intrigue, all of them interwoven like a bramble thicket.

Due to the swift advancement of the Imperial forces towards Paris, the French court had been evacuated to Château de Villers-Cotterêts, located in the town of Villers-Cotterêts in Picardie. Dauphin Henri and his wife, Catherine de' Medici, as well as the other royal children – Princess Marguerite and Princess Charles, Duke d'Orléans – had been taken there for their safety.

Anne de Montmorency enlightened, "Your Majesty, the King of Scotland refused to send his troops to us. But I've already sent our envoys to many Protestant countries."

"Excellent, Monty," the monarch commended as they entered the chamber with dramatic wall hangings of battles and tourneys. "We will have an audience with them after the ceremony. As for the Scots, if they want to dishonor our old Auld alliance, then so be it."

"The Scots are traitors to France," grumbled Montmorency.

As they quitted the room into a hallway, the ruler continued bitterly, "I did not expect that James Stuart would betray not only our friendship, but also his own wife – my Madeleine."

King François remembered his favorite daughter – Princess Madeleine of France, who was the Queen of Scotland. A year earlier, James V of the Scots had contracted to marry Mary de Bourbon and journeyed to France to meet her. During his reception at Fontainebleau, James had noticed the youthful Madeleine, whose exquisite beauty was like the ethereal loveliness of a female saint on the stained-glass windows in grand basilicas. Utterly smitten with the Valois princess, James had forgotten about his Bourbon bride-to-be and begun courting Madeleine.

 _That Stuart beggar-king implored me to let him marry my Madeleine_ , François recalled, his hands clenching in anger. _Has he ever really loved my girl? Or did he simply need her huge dowry for his impoverished realm?_ Madeleine's fragile health worried François, so he had initially rejected the match. But his daughter had fallen in love with James so passionately that she had beseeched him with tears to approve of her choice of a husband. Emboldened by her affection for him, James had entreated the king to allow them to be happy together, vowing to love her forever.

Finally, the King of France had surrendered to his daughter's and James' solicitations. The wedding had occurred in Paris in October 1535, and, after months of lavish celebrations, they had left for Scotland. Since then, François and Madeleine maintained regular correspondence, and the gradual decline of his daughter's health was frightening. His fears that the harsh Scottish climate would considerably weaken Madeleine had turned out warranted, and François prayed that the speed with which they reached the lethal heights of disaster would not be too quick.

Cardinal de Tournon began his report, interrupting the ruler's musings. "Your Majesty, I've made all the arrangements for the wedding. Madame Boleyn and you will have a Catholic ceremony binding you to each other through the standard rite of holy matrimony."

The ruler answered, "I trust you wholeheartedly, Your Eminence. However, we also need to procure a papal dispensation for our marriage."

"Why, my liege?" interjected Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise.

The cardinal berated, "Monsieur de Guise, you should not ask the king such questions."

"It is fine," the monarch said imperturbably. "At the heart of great leadership are people with their curious minds and spirits. Most of my courtiers heard about my erstwhile affair with Mary Boleyn, who is now Lady Stafford." Inwardly, he was irritated by the mention of his affair with Mary, for Anne must remember about it as well.

François cast a glance at Claude de Lorraine. His subject was a talented general, who had distinguished himself at the Battle of Marignano in 1515, and who had become governor of Champagne and Burgundy after defeating at Neufchâteau the Imperial troops in 1523. For his outstanding service to the Crown, Claude had been elevated to Duke of Guise in 1528, although, up to that time, only princes of the blood had held the title of duke and peer of France.

Duke Claude de Guise was a man of athletic build, with an aura of drama and refined elegance about him. Clad in a doublet and hose of the finest green and black brocade, embellished with gems, he swaggered with a larger-than-life confidence and a unique sense of the Guise pride, yet there was an aggressive air about him. His pompous countenance, framed by a flat cap of brown velvet, was set off by his black mustache and his sharp, hazel eyes.

Guise apologized, "I'm sorry, Your Majesty."

"It is fine," reiterated François. "Your Eminence?"

Circumstances beyond Tournon's control worried him. "I'll think of what I can do." He sighed. "The Pope has not upbraided the emperor for his recent actions towards Your Majesty. He will not be happy when Your Majesty allies with Protestant duchies and countries."

The French monarch stopped abruptly, and his councilors followed suit, the tension in the air mounting. Decorated by paintings by the Florentine master Giovanni Battista di Jacopo, the vast hallway was empty, so they could speak without being eavesdropped upon.

A furrow formed on the king's forehead. His mind drifted to the Pope's letters which his spies had intercepted a month earlier. François was still shocked that Sir William Brereton, who had been accused of being Anne's paramour and executed, had been an assassin sent by Pope Pole III. _I'm a Catholic. However, I agree with the reformers that the Vatican is too steeped in politics. A Pope is capable of committing any evil deed._ He would tell Anne about it, but not now.

Exasperation lurked in the amber eyes. "Coerce His Holiness into submission, for I need this document. I know something about him that he would not want to be divulged to the public."

Tournon nodded at the sovereign of France, whose countenance softened. Montmorency and Guise looked at their liege lord with interest, but they did not dare ask him anything.

"Let's go," instructed the king as he stalked towards the council room.

Montmorency spoke up. "Any meeting of Military Council is a serious thing! We are all looking for a chance to kill those Spanish dogs and win a great victory for France."

"I crave to kill them all," grouched Guise.

There was a low rumble of affirmation from the king and his advisors.

François stated, "If you believe in yourself and have dedication and strength, you will be a winner, even if you lose in the short run. The price of victory is high, but so are the rewards."

The ruler tried to elevate their spirits, and a roar of laughter rose up from everyone.

§§§

The purple shadows of dusk mantled the palace. The evening was warm and balmy, so the windows in the council room were ajar. A light breeze drifted inside, carrying with it the faint sounds of bird chirping and the intoxicating fragrance of blossoms from the gardens.

The king emitted a heavy sigh. "Which territories have the invaders captured?"

Anne de Montmorency began his doleful report. "Provence, Dauphine, and Languedoc, as well as the Duchies of Auvergne, Bourbon, and Berry are occupied by the enemy."

King François, Queen Marguerite of Navarre, and royal advisers sat at a table piled with maps, parchments, and scrolls, as well as inkwells and quills. To everyone's astonishment, and perhaps someone's dismay, Lady Anne Boleyn was also present at the monarch's request. Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, was not there because he was still convalescing from his wounds.

"Any other awful tidbits?" asked the monarch in a controlled voice. In the flickering candlelight, his pallid face had a light of its own, as did the amber eyes – fatalistic light.

"Nothing, my liege," answered Montmorency tonelessly.

François emitted a grievous sigh. "It could have been worse."

Tapping his fingers onto the armrests, the monarch eyed the map laid out on the table, his scrutiny focusing on the south of France, which was circled in bold. An icy breeze of mortal dread blew through his inner realm at the thought of the monstrous danger his country now faced.

Currently, France's political landscape was bleak. In November 1535, the third Valois-Habsburg war had begun with the death of Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan. In the absence of Sforza's legitimate heirs, Emperor Carlos had enjoined his representative to take charge of the Duchy of Milan, and there had been no protests among the local populace. Being a descendant of Valentina Visconti, King François firmly believed that Asti and the Duchy of Milan were rightfully his. On this account, in March 1536, the French army under the command of Philippe de Chabot had entered Turin and captured Piedmont, but it had failed to take Milan.

At least, King François was lucky that the Imperial martial enthusiasm had slackened in Italy, so his country did not need to fight on multiple fronts. In France, the invasion continued, and, since the catastrophe at Arles, the Imperial forces had moved further north, where they had encircled the area around the town of Montpensier. The local French divisions had unexpectedly launched such a fierce attack that, for some time, they had managed to block the previously rapid advancement of the Habsburg forces through the duchy. But Montpensier had fallen after a short siege, so Emperor Carlos together with his brother, Ferdinand, had pushed forward.

When the Habsburg troops had approached Moulins, the town garrisons had declined to surrender, although a number of small skirmishes had occurred. Embarking upon their campaign with élan, Carlos and Ferdinand had turned towards the city of Tours in the center-west of France, having reached the place approximately two weeks ago. To counter them, Guillaume du Bellay, seigneur de Langey and the governor of Piedmont, had arrived from the Duchy of Savoy together with the French army of eight thousand men. Bellay's divisions had tried to intercept and squash the enemy, but, unfortunately, they had rapidly been sighted by the opponents.

The hostile parties had confronted one another near Tours. A large part of the Imperial formation of about ten thousand men had assembled in lines on the marshes, and the scorching barrage of their artillery fire had annihilated most of the French infantry and cavalry. Guillaume du Bellay's divisions had resisted until the last man had been killed, including Bellay himself. The victory at Tours was a clear and ruthless message that the Habsburgs were not lenient towards those who opposed them. At present, the King of France's troops were in disarray, while the Spanish marched towards their final and much-wanted destination – the grand city of Paris.

The fiasco of the French in Provence and the subjugation of the southern territories had resulted in the urgent necessity for France to make new anti-Imperial alliances. Therefore, most of the royal councilors, even Catholics, had concluded that they needed the king's marriage to Anne. It was no secret that, even despite her condemnation and exile, Protestant nations saw Anne Boleyn as the symbol of England's break from Rome and lauded her for her role in the ongoing religious reform. It was better to have her as the Queen of France rather than be crippled by the Spanish and perhaps lose at least half of the country to the Habsburgs. Due to the ruler's order to evacuate the court to Picardie, the reaction of the French royal family was not yet known.

Cardinal de Tournon informed, "Your Majesty, our spies reported that the Imperial forces had reached the County of Sancerre several days earlier. Emperor Carlos intends to march to either Blois or Amboise, boasting that he will spend a wonderful time at your palaces."

The king's features were pallid, but not a muscle trembled. "It takes a real man to make such a sincere confession. It cloaks one of the seven deadly sins – the envy Carlos feels because his empire's cultural achievements shall never surpass those of Italy and France."

Anne listened carefully, catching every word and analyzing it. After wandering around, her eyes rested on François. It was truly impressive how he masked his turbulent emotions with nonchalant sangfroid. Since their meeting in the chapel, the king was very friendly and courteous to her, his demeanor cheerful, as if filled with devilish confidence befitting a conqueror.

Their gazes intersected, and François grinned wanly at Anne. Despite his blank façade, he was overwrought, the impervious darkness of anguish pulsating through him. His head was spinning from the uncertainty as to the end of France's woes. Moreover, the monarch was still profoundly shocked by the defeat at Arles, guilt eating at him like a festering sore.

Marguerite drummed her fingers against the table. "The more ill-gotten gains people have, the more they brag. But that Spanish barbarian will not destroy our glorious culture."

The Marshal of France opined, "Although the French southern and eastern armies were crushed, we still have the northern army near the border with Flanders. Our armies stationed in Piedmont and Savoy must be recalled back to France. To stop our foe's voyage further north, they should join all our remaining forces in the County of Sancerre, where our enemies have hovered for some time. We need to compel the adversary to withdraw south."

François arched a brow. "When what, Monty?"

In the voice of a legendary general, Montmorency continued, "I would rather not have a cutthroat encounter with the powerful, disciplined, and well-appointed Imperial troops." He trailed off for a split second. "We might give the adversary a battle that would bleed them of their best officers and men. By doing so, we will ensure the retreat of the Spanish back to Bourbon, Auvergne, and then Provence. If the rest of our army from Savoy and Piedmont intercepts the enemies, we will engage with them in Provence, and we will have a chance to win."

A frown puckered the royal brow. "You have a brilliant military mind, Monty. However, I do not want the foe to retire from France while we pursue them. I prefer to crush them once and for all. If we play our cards well, we will entrap that Spanish intriguer."

With a sigh, Marguerite glanced at Montmorency. "More Habsburg armies might arrive during their retreat. They might also recruit more mercenaries and launch a new campaign."

Deep down, the ruler was extremely frustrated. "As a crafty commander, Carlos might goad us into a fresh offensive while having a trump card up his sleeve. Moreover, even if we win, the French might lose more men while following the enemy in close pursuit."

The king's sister heaved a mournful sigh. "Haven't we already lost enough?"

The initial response to her question was a lugubrious silence. There was a nagging ache in everyone's chest just beneath the surface. The stillness deepened to the point where it seemed that the assemblage's mind was perpetually on the imaginings of impending doom. The walls, hung with tapestries depicting tragedies by Aeschylus, added to the despairing gloom.

"More than enough," the king muttered at last. "At both Arles and Tours…"

Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, entered the conversation. "I suggest that we do not engage the bulk of the Imperial forces all at once. Instead, we should divide them while they are in the lands of Sancerre, Bourbon, or Auvergne by bringing a large portion of our own armies to bear on their small units in sequence. This tactic exposes some of our units to many small risks and skirmishes, but it ensures the eventual destruction of the entire Spanish force."

There was blackness in Tournon's gaze. "How will we defend our divisions which have no effective communications with the central command and cannot request assistance?"

A spleenful Guise swore under his breath. "Your Eminence is France's foreign minister, not a general. I fought with His Majesty at Marignano and recovered from twenty-two wounds."

"Enough, Monsieur de Guise." The king did not want his advisors to be at each other's throats. "Your offer is worth considering, but I agree with His Eminence's assessment of risks."

Annebault chimed in, "Defeating foe in detail can be an effective strategy. Nevertheless, the Imperial armies are fully equipped and unshaken in discipline. They also have powerful chiefs. At the same time, our troops lost the morale due to our losses." With an air of melancholy about him, he concluded, "We must restore our confidence before rebuilding momentum."

The monarch fidgeted with a parchment. "You are right, Claude." A short silence ensued, as he tapped the quill against the table. "A defensive role brings about a distinct lowering of the morale of the soldiers, who imagine that the adversary must be far more competent in the martial art. If they become possessed by this idea, the battle is as good as lost."

Marguerite pointed out, "We are fighting not on enemy soil but on our own land. And we were not even able to maintain a successful defense for a protracted period."

Forgetting that she had not been permitted to speak, Anne interposed, "It is true that the defensive party becomes ignorant of the dispositions and plans of the opponent. Thus, the sooner the defensive strategy evolves into an offensive one, the higher the morale of the French will be. The persistence of the losing party will eventually have a natural effect – victory."

"Pray continue, Lady Anne," François encouraged.

The advisors stared at their liege lord open-mouthed. Marguerite smiled knowingly.

In a bemused tone, Anne quizzed, "Do I really have Your Majesty's permission?"

The ruler's lips stretched into a grin. "The more often women sit at the negotiation table and share their ideas in the voice of female intelligence and wisdom, the more feats men will accomplish. Gender doesn't define astuteness in politics – intelligence and perspective do."

Anne's scintillating smile revealed her awe. "Is it your experience, sire?"

His heart humming with gladness, François thought that it was her first luminous smile since her arrival at his court. "Of course. Impeccably educated and intelligent women have always played an important role in my realm. When my beloved mother, Louise de Savoy – God bless her soul – was alive, Marguerite, our mother, and I together held the government in our hands."

Marguerite jested, "François is determined to abide by my advice until Doomsday."

The ruler bubbled into an effusive laughter. "A lady can remain a feminine creature with a touch of sophistication, while also being smart and tough." Leaning forward across the table, as if closer to the Lady Boleyn, he gazed into her eyes. "I've always admired women for intelligence, education, and personality. Beauty is never enough."

Anne found François' approach to the mental abilities of the female gender a stark and pleasing contrast to Henry's. _I was degraded to a shadow of my former self during my marriage to Henry Tudor,_ she silently lamented. _His domineering tendencies made me so miserable._

Truth be told, despite his excellent education, King Henry had never possessed an artistic spirit of refined and delicate disposition. Her former husband had valued the intellectual fabrics of her personality only during their long courtship. After their wedding, Henry had said that her counsel and opinion had not been the hallmark of a good, docile wife, so he had channeled their relationship into a more traditional torrent. Henry had enjoined Anne to submit herself to his rule and guidance in all things, great and small, accepting his judgments on all matters.

King François had ushered France into an era of unparalleled enlightenment. Their union would be purely political, yet he could be willing to benefit from Anne's intelligence. Educated in humanism, the arts, philosophy, literature, and history, he was a true Renaissance man, who was attracted to feminine beauty and equally admired the sophistication of a woman's personality. _I do not care about François as a man. Yet, he does have a unique eye for life. He is a great patron of the arts, who has attained a genuine alliance between the arts and the court life._

The king prodded, "Do not be so shy, Madame Boleyn. Share with us your thoughts."

Anne was proud that the ruler had requested that. "I believe that France cannot win the war against the Habsburgs without defying the established rules of warfare. Taking into account _our_ current dire predicament, it is vitally important to convert the unfavorable circumstances into the means of success. Perhaps the time has come for turning a new leaf in the history of war."

Marguerite's eyes flashed with curiosity. "Please, elaborate, Anne."

Anne's countenance was like that of a painter at work upon a portrait that would become a masterpiece. "With such numbers and location of troops, no advantages can be obtained against the vast and disciplined armies of the Holy Roman Empire. However, if the established rules of etiquette and strategy are abandoned, the rapidity and unexpectedness of motion can utterly surprise the superior numbers of the Spaniards, and in this case, we will defeat them."

"This is too general, Madame." Irritation colored Guise's voice.

Anne stared at the tapestry, portraying scenes from _the Persians_ by Aeschylus. She had always been interested in the Persians' second invasion of Greece. "In 480 BC, the huge Persian armies assembled and crushed the allied Greek states at Thermopylae. Then the Persians torched the evacuated city of Athens and conquered most of Greece. However, while seeking to destroy the combined Greek fleet, the Persians endured a serious defeat at Salamis. After a short rest, the Greeks counterattacked and won the Battle of Plataea, ending the invasion."

Claude de Guise sent her an annoyed look. "Too much mythology."

"It matters a lot," objected Anne, leaning back in her seat with evident enjoyment. "The Greek troops were totally vanquished by the Persians, losing their country. Yet, they were able to keep their morale up and continue fighting." She lapsed into silence and raked her eyes over the spectators. "France is now in the same position as the allied Greek states were back then."

Impressed by the breadth of her knowledge in history, François noted, "We cannot have a naval battle with the Spaniards, who are now almost in the center of France."

Anne possessed a masterful grasp of politics. "A sea battle can be part of your strategy. The Ottoman Empire is France's ally, so you can send an envoy to Suleiman the Magnificent and ask him to attack some Spanish ports and Genoa. Spain exchanges the riches from the New World for gold in Genoa, and the city's siege will result in the lack of funds in the emperor's treasury. Your enemy will be unable to pay his troops."

"Bravo!" cried Claude d'Annebault. "That would bleed the Spanish finances!"

Anne smiled at Annebault, who responded in kind. His expression good-humored and radiating energy, his body was thin for a martial man. His mischievous green eyes indicated that he had a quick-witted, warm personality. Claude's doublet and hose of russet serge corresponded with his mellow temper which was also reflected in his easy manner of leading conversation. Anne would try to befriend Annebault, who was evidently amicable towards her.

Tournon surveyed their future queen with interest. "That is a brilliant idea. The Ottomans might attack the Italian ports ruled by the Habsburgs, including Genoa, as well as Spanish ones."

The Queen of Navarre surveyed Anne raptly. "Such detrimental external problems would distract the emperor from his obsession to subjugate France."

The King of France watched his fiancée, as if she were the rarest painting in the world. His mother and sister were the strongest, most educated, and most accomplished women he had ever known, both of them capable of thinking as a man of action. Claude of France, a daughter of King Louis XII and his first wife, had been a strong woman, who had stood firm for her opinions, but her mind had never been as masculine as his mother's and sister's. _Anne Boleyn is another strong woman who is capable of ruling as a queen regnant,_ François surmised.

"Ah, I like this option," murmured Montmorency with an odd note in his voice.

There was a strained smile on Guise's visage. "That would be a productive tactic."

The Baron de Montmorency and the Duke de Guise were both devout Catholics. Thus, they both disliked Anne due to her religious beliefs and her role in England's break from Rome. The Marshal of France had accepted the inevitability of his liege lord's marriage to Anne, while the duke would never acknowledge the heretical woman he hated as the Queen of France. But despite their differences, they reluctantly admired Anne's intelligence and her quick thinking.

Anne flipped her eyes between Montmorency and Guise. A torrent of tension flowed between them, and perhaps she could use it to her advantage. _Probably, they are rivals for the king's affections_ , she conjectured. Montmorency was a powerful man, but so was Guise, who belonged to the House of Lorraine and descended from the Capetian House of Anjou.

The Duke de Guise frowned at the woman whom he labeled _'The heretical_ _Boleyn whore'_ in his mind. These words were on the tip of his tongue, but he did not pronounce anything. Immediately, Anne experienced a strong distaste for the man, finding Montmorency a far friendlier person. The tip of the duke's nose curved over his mustache, and his eyes pierced her with apparent animosity. With an air of sinister, yet rarefied, daintiness about him, Guise did not look like a martial man, unlike Anne de Montmorency with his severe countenance. Perhaps Guise posed more of a threat to Anne than Montmorency, although they both were against new religious ideas.

François addressed Anne, "Something else on your mind?"

With an acerbic smile, Anne promulgated, "The devious emperor might be defeated only with cunning methods. The trap for him must have a ghastly perfection." She glanced into the monarch's eyes as she pronounced, "My union with Your Majesty shall allow France to establish new important alliances. As the Spaniards are currently in Sancerre, they can be encircled by the armies of France and her allies in this county or somewhere nearby. Every movement by the allied forces should be made with celerity, and every blow should be leveled where it is least expected."

The ruler identified his archenemy's main weakness. "Carlos' overconfidence shall help us outwit him. He cannot imagine that we will ally with the German Protestant States and other Protestant nations. He will not know that we will secure the assistance of the Turks. Our allied army will be an army of attack, not of defense; of operation, not of position."

Montmorency emphasized, "We will have to create a complex plan."

Everyone nodded at the Marshal of France. It was their first meeting regarding France's future military actions; many debates would run hot and heavy in months to come.

Marguerite stressed, "As well as Anne's marriage to my brother."

"It will happen in a few days." The king's charming grin brightened the room.

Annebault looked between François and Anne. He was growing fond of Anne, and her religious background was not his concern. "Will the emperor learn about your wedding?"

The sovereign of France inclined his head. "Of course. Everyone will."

Jean de Guise inquired, "Does Your Majesty really need to proceed with the wedding?"

"Yes, I do. Is that clear?" The ruler's tone was like that of a mother berating her child.

"I'm sorry." Guise bobbed his head like a bird pecking at grain.

The monarch maneuvered to the topic at hand. "Lady Anne and I are the injured parties in this pyramid of schemes. Woe to the sinners and victory to the afflicted! We shall win!"

Montmorency broached another issue. "Does Your Majesty plan to ally with England?"

The monarch shook his head. "Definitely not. Henry proved himself to be a bad ally."

"He betrayed us once," reminded Marguerite.

The king's response left everyone flabbergasted. "I'll deal with Henry later."

Two dark pools met the amber caverns. Anne and François deciphered the same message: the English king would hate them upon learning about their matrimony, which amused them.

François pledged, "Anne, I'll invite you to the next council."

With unaccustomed shyness, his bride blurted out, "Really, sire?"

The king issued a joke. "I want to see the bellicose Goddess Minerva at my side."

Marguerite burst out laughing, Annebault and Tournon joining in her laugh. Guise and Montmorency kept their expressions guarded. The perceived divergence of their reactions to the king's marriage was rather perilous. Dark clouds, as if premonitory, scudded across the vaulted ceiling, but a bit of blue firmament came in sight as Anne and François smiled at each other.

* * *

 _I hope that you liked this chapter. François and Anne are going to marry soon, but she consents to Marguerite's proposal only because she wants to take her vengeance upon Henry. Anne does not want to have a royal friendship with anyone at this stage. The French also have the meeting of Military Council, where Anne can clearly see that François does respect and admire a woman's intelligence._

 _Aeschylus was an ancient Greek tragedian. His work 'The Persians' was highly influenced by the Persians' second invasion of Greece (480–479 BC), which Anne speaks about during the meeting of Military Council. The Greco-Persian Wars, which are also often called the Persian Wars, were a series of conflicts between the Achaemenid Empire and Greek city-states that started in 499 BC and lasted until 449 BC._

 _Clément Marot's wrote many poems about Queen Marguerite of Navarre, including the eulogy in this chapter._

 _Venus was a Roman goddess of love, beauty, desire, sex, fertility, and prosperity. It was believed that she was the mother of the Roman people through her son, Aeneas, who survived the fall of Troy and fled to Italy. Cupid was the Roman god of desire, erotic love, and attraction, who was the son of Venus and the war god Mars._

 _The Moirai (the Three Fates) were the Greek incarnations of destiny: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Clotho was spinning the thread of human life. As the measurer of the thread spun on Clotho's spindle, Lachesis determined destiny. Atropos chose the mechanism of death and ended the life of mortals._

 _Madeleine de Valois, a daughter of King François I and Queen Claude, became Queen of Scotland as the first spouse of King James V. In history, they married in January 1537, but in this AU, their wedding took place in October 1535. It was normal for a girl to marry at the age of fifteen back then, so I moved their wedding to an earlier date. In this story, Madeleine is in Scotland._

 _The Franco-Ottoman alliance of 1536 was an alliance established between King François I and Suleiman the Magnificent. It was one of the most important foreign alliances of France, and it was frowned upon by other Christian countries; it was particularly influential during the Italian Wars._

 _Please, leave a review on this chapter. Reviews always encourage an author to update and make them happy! Thank you very much in advance._

 _Yours sincerely,_  
 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	5. Chapter 4: Sublime Immortality

**Chapter 4:** **Sublime Immortality**

 ** _August 15, 1536, Château de Fontainebleau,_ _Fontainebleau, France_**

The earth-shattering wedding of King François I of France and Lady Anne Boleyn was a private ceremony. Currently, the court resided in the safety of Villers-Cotterêts in Picardie on the monarch's orders, so a small number of nobles gathered in the Chapel of the Trinity.

The ruler, his bride, and the congregation occupied their places in the sanctuary near the altar. Candles blazed like belligerent flares on a battlefield. As Mass commenced, the atmosphere evolved into a deep somberness, as if conveying the fatal aura surrounding the country.

Robed in his rich, crimson vestment, Cardinal François de Tournon led the ceremony, his monotonous voice droning on in Latin. After the introductory rites, he invited the assemblage to pray for France. At the conclusion of the prayer, the Liturgy of the Word followed.

The responsorial psalm succeeded the first reading, fostering everyone's meditation on the word of the Almighty. The cardinal read aloud the Book of Psalms from the Bible.

 _Your ways, oh Lord, make known to me,_

 _Teach me your paths,_

 _Guide me in your truth and teach me,_

 _For you are God my savior._

 _To you, O Lord, I lift my soul._

Wretched as Anne had long felt herself to be, her former state was nothing compared to what she endured at the present moment. Amazement, helplessness, fright, grief, panic, and even ire – all struggled in her breast, contending for supremacy. As her husband-to-be took her hand and laced their fingers, she cast a timid glance around, as if to ascertain the reality of her fate.

Bending his head to her, François whispered, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," lied Anne, not looking at him.

He caressed her palm with his thumb. "You can still stop it."

Her gaze darted to his face. "No."

In spite of not being a Catholic, Anne eagerly listened to the soul-stirring psalms. She scrutinized the frescoes on the walls, her gaze lingering on the scene of the Annunciation.

 _Good and upright is the Lord,_

 _Thus, he shows sinners the way._

 _He guides the humble to justice,_

 _And teaches the humble his way._

 _To you, o Lord, I lift my soul._

The stream of mind-wrenching and unanswerable questions preyed upon Anne. Was the Lord teaching her His paths by making her a queen once more? Would He bring Henry who had perpetrated many evil deeds against her to justice? Should she accept her second marriage? And what was her destiny? The words from the psalms injected confusion into her.

At the end of the reading, Tournon crossed himself. "The Word of the Lord!"

The audience responded, "Thanks be to God."

Anne whispered to herself, "Oh, Jesus, to you I commend my life."

At the conclusion of the next part, the cardinal declared, "The Gospel of the Lord!"

Those in attendance exclaimed, "Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!"

Then the Liturgy of the Eucharist, a central rite of Christian worship, was served. To all Catholics and Protestants, it was a memorial action, in which God's children recalled what Jesus Christ was, said, and did. Anne was entirely concentrated on the ceremony, as if the whole ritual had unburdened her of the heavy load of her countless sorrows and errors.

In a quiet voice that vibrated in his chest, François uttered, "Participation in the Eucharist deepens the communion of believers not only with Christ but also with one another."

Anne's hand trembled in his. "Perhaps."

After the communion rite, the gifts of bread and wine were brought up, along with other gifts. A reformer at heart, Anne would gladly have exchanged wine for grape juice or water, but she could not. Finally, an offertory prayer was recited, and the concluding rites ended the Mass.

At Cardinal de Tournon's sign, everyone stood up, including the monarch and his fiancée. It was high time for the celebration of matrimony, and a deep silence reigned in the chapel.

§§§

Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, and Anne de Montmorency stepped closer to the bride and bridegroom. They acted as witnesses, but their attitude to the affair could not be more opposite.

"Do not be so sad," whispered Marguerite to the Marshal of France.

Montmorency shrugged. "How can I feel, Your Majesty?"

She lowered her voice considerably. "You know that it is needed at this stage."

"I do," he breathed. "Otherwise, I would never have supported it."

"Calm down. There shall never be any church reform in France."

He bobbed his head. "This puts my mind at ease, though only slightly."

All knew that the Queen of Navarre had presented the idea of this marriage to François and even procured Anne's consent. No one was surprised to see Marguerite's smiling countenance today. Like many others, Montmorency had his reservations about the union and looked sullen.

§§§

 _Dearly beloved, you have come together into the house of the Church so that in the presence of God and the community your intention to enter into marriage may be strengthened by the Lord with a sacred seal. So, in the presence of the Church, I ask you to state your intentions._

The cardinal's declaration knifed Anne to the heart. Tournon then questioned them about their freedom of choice, fidelity to each other, as well as the acceptance and upbringing of children.

 _Have you come here to enter into marriage freely and wholeheartedly? Are you prepared to love and honor each other for as long as you both shall live? Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God and to bring them up according to the law of Christ?_

To each of these questions, François and Anne answered, "I am" or "I have."

The French ruler and his bride knelt on a bridal canopy of golden and blue silk. Joining their right hands, they declared their consent before the Almighty and the Church.

His heart palpitating with unfamiliar reverent emotion, the monarch gazed into Anne's eyes. "I, François, take you, Anne, to be my wife. I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life."

Anne strangled the urge to laugh. _Empty promises which will be easily broken. Marital vows are not binding for men, especially not for kings._ During their long courtship, Henry had lavished her with innumerable vows of eternal fidelity and everlasting love, but they had all turned out to be falsehood. Words of love were illusive, like the reflection of the moon in the water.

Compelling herself to look and sound composed, Anne articulated, "I, Anne, take you, François, to be my husband. I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life."

She throttled the impulse to grimace and snicker at the absurdity of her situation. She did not even intend to spend more than one night with the monarch. Being indifferent to his carnal relations with his mistresses, Anne wanted François to continue his old lifestyle of an inveterate philanderer, for which he was famous. _My vows are as hilarious and meaningless as his._

Unbeknownst to her, the King of France experienced an unconventional feeling of wonder and regret. He was convinced that he and Anne could get on well, but she had made her position as to their life together clear. The thought that their union would be as faux as his matrimony with Eleanor gnawed at him, as if part of him would be missing if he were deprived of the sophistication and intelligence of Anne's personality. _At least, there are other women to warm my bed_ , he mused _._

Cardinal de Tournon pronounced, "I hereby declare you husband and wife."

As her new husband slid the Valois diamond and sapphire golden ring onto her finger, a jolt of fear and embarrassment raced up her hand and spread through her limbs. Anne blinked, like a newborn making sense of the surroundings, and a flurry of spots flooded her vision.

 _May the Lord in his kindness strengthen the consent you have declared before the Church and bring to fulfillment his blessings within you! What God has joined, let no one put asunder._

Anne veered her gaze to François, who flashed her a scintillating smile. Astonished by the lightness she discerned in his gaze, she wondered whether he viewed their wedding as a mere adventure. She had no clue that her spouse was as tense inside as a violin string.

In a high voice, Marguerite declared, "God bless King François and Queen Anne!"

Cardinal de Tournon affirmed, "Long Live King François and Queen Anne!" He did not know Anne Boleyn well, but he felt inexplicable sympathy to her, despite her true religion.

"Long Live King François and Queen Anne!" echoed the spectators.

At this, the certainty of her new marriage smote Anne with a sense of dismay too acute to be suppressed. She darted a look of anguish at the French monarch – she could not call him her husband even in her mind. He squeezed her hand, as if he knew she needed the contact to realize she was not alone in the world, and, unexpectedly, this gesture instilled strength into her soul.

§§§

The most sullen countenances in the assemblage were those of the de Lorraine brothers. Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, scowled at the sight of the king and queen who rose to their feet from the bridal canopy. His second brother – Jean, Cardinal of Lorraine – looked gloomier than ever. Louis, Count de Vaudémont and the youngest among them, stomped his feet in anger.

Claude de Lorraine murmured to his siblings, "Long live France and King François."

"But not that Boleyn witch," Louis and Jean chorused in a whisper.

Claude pledged, "She will not be the Queen of France for long."

Jean clenched his fists. "We will take care of her demise."

"When?" asked Louis with impatience.

"As soon as we defeat the Spanish," answered the Duke de Guise.

§§§

The rite of blessing and giving of arras took place after the giving of rings. Then a canticle of praise for the Almighty was sung by the choir, and the wedding ceremony was over.

The royal couple pivoted to start the procession towards the exit; others followed suit.

With a regal air about them, King François and Queen Anne strolled down the long nave. Moving liturgically, she looked like a pious pilgrim bedewing with tears Christ's way from Pilate's tribunal to Calvary's heights. He also looked a bit somber, for he did not exude happiness.

The monarch sensed his wife's discomfort. "Anne, I am not going to eat you like some monster from Homer's Iliad." It was the first time he addressed her by her name.

His spouse could not banish all her fears of the future. "I'm fully aware of Your Majesty's chivalry. After all, you were the only one who extended a helping hand to me in need."

There was a peculiar expression in his eyes. "They call me the Knight-King, after all."

A wan smile curved her lips. "For your chivalry and personal participation in battles."

"Indeed, my queen." François eyed his wife as a connoisseur of female beauty. "It would be my terrible omission not to tell you that you look absolutely ravishing today."

Her smile faded. "We both look grand, sire."

As they quitted the church, a restrained cheer rose in the air. Those courtiers who were still present at court had a conflicted attitude towards the royal wedding, their enthusiasm tempered by the concern over the future of the French religious policy and doctrine.

Nevertheless, everyone admired the grandeur of the French royal couple. Both François and Anne were accoutered in the color white – dazzling, like snow shining in the winter sun. Their splendid habiliments communicated the omnipotence of their union, implying that they two would triumph over the Habsburgs, as well as the purity of their reputations besmirched by foes.

His expression haughty, King François flashed smiles as they passed through the hallway. His doublet, of white brocade velvet wrought with gold, glittered with diamonds, and over it, he wore a white velvet mantle, trimmed with sable. His white velvet toque was plumed with a feather of the same color, and embroidered with rubies. His hose of white silk and his girdle, ornamented with rubies and sapphires, stressed his slender waist and legs. The resplendent ensemble of the king's magnificence dazzled everyone, like walking out of a dark cave into the bright sunlight.

Staring at his new spouse, the ruler was cognizant of his quickened pulse, and, even more than that, of the stab of pain in the region of his heart. In a breathtaking gown of white brocade embroidered with gold and diamonds, her stomacher of silver silk, Anne embodied a Vestal maid, in spite of her notorious biography. François instantly recognized this dress: years ago, it had been created for Queen Claude of France to display France's elegant style and riches during the Field of Cloth of Gold in 1520, although his dead wife had never worn it for some reason. Studded with pearls, Anne's girdle encircled her narrow waist. A subdued air about her emphasized her innocent confidence, with which she glided along the floor, her hand clasped in his.

"This gown suits you to perfection," François complimented her.

Anne nodded. "Queen Claude, God bless her soul, had an exquisite taste."

He grinned at her, but her visage remained stony. _Anne is so beautiful that I desperately want her, regardless of her unwillingness to be with me. But I must curb my desires and stay away from her._ She struggled as angrily in the net of her new life as a wasp got caught in honey. Maybe she would get accustomed to him later, letting him help Anne open her wings to their full span.

§§§

François and Anne stopped in a vast hall, adorned with frescoes and sculptures of nymphs and ancient heroes. Forthwith, foreign ambassadors flocked to them like fireflies, each of them interested in talking with the couple, whose wedding was the last thing they had anticipated.

With an impressive air of royal hauteur, King François swept his eyes over the group and announced, "Hear you all! Tell your masters that France will defeat Spain and expel our enemies from our land!" He raised his wife's hand in the air. "We shall ally with all the adversaries of the Habsburgs, who are a threat to peace and prosperity of non-Spanish nations."

"Your Majesty is right," the ambassador from the Duchy of Cleves said.

The envoy from Switzerland cried, "We must destroy the emperor's troops together!"

The Swedish ambassador interjected, "My king will eagerly ally with France."

"The emperor has crossed a line, this time," opined the Norwegian ambassador.

The Venetian diplomat concurred, "Once Emperor Carlos allowed his troops to sack the city of Rome which was plundered by his mercenaries, who killed hundreds of civilians and priests. Now he wishes to subjugate France, and he must be stopped by those who do not want war."

One of his hands still holding Anne's, François waved the other for silence. "Carlos von Habsburg will pay for his defiance of the Lord and His commandments. Together, we are strong!"

Sir Nicholas Wotton, the English ambassador to France, asked, "Your Majesty married the woman who was accused of adultery, high treason, and incest. How can you explain it?"

Squeezing his spouse's hand, the French ruler contradicted, "My dear wife, Queen Anne of France, is as guilty of the crimes she has been falsely accused of as I'm guilty of Eleanor of Austria's death." He stilled for a moment and surveyed the foreigners. "Every sane and honest person in Christendom knows that my second spouse died of consumption. However, Emperor Carlos hates me so much that he has transgressed God's law by attacking my country with the false intention to avenge his sister's death which occurred of natural causes."

Locking his gaze with Anne, François continued, "In the same way, my queen is innocent of all the charges her enemies leveled against her." He paused to let it sink in the heads of others. "We are both totally innocent, despite what our foes want the world to believe."

"But King Henry–" Wotton was interrupted.

The monarch's menacing growl sent shivers down the man's spine. "Henry Tudor has done many wicked things in his life. Even if he were led astray by his advisers, he is ultimately responsible for his errors, because he rules England. One day, I'll demand justice for Anne after Henry deprived her of the English crown, as well as of her good name and her daughter."

As the king nodded at her, Queen Anne told Wotton in French, "King Henry of England, my former husband, was deceived by Thomas Cromwell. Fancying himself in love with Jane Seymour, Henry believed his chief minister and executed several men unjustly condemned, one of them being my own brother." Her voice took on a higher octave. "God is holy, His punishments are just. I hope that when Henry learns the truth, the Almighty will be able to forgive him."

François moved the discourse to the closure. "Sir Wotton, pass on our greetings to Henry. It takes many good deeds to build an excellent reputation, and only one bad action to lose it."

Swiveling like two snakes being charmed, the monarch and his queen strolled away.

Their departure produced a portentous silence. The message was clear: until the Spanish were all ejected from France, François and Anne would disregard her unfair condemnation, plotting vengeance like vipers – slow and calculative to attack, yet venomous in the extreme.

§§§

As the day was closing in, a remarkable stillness ensued in the palace that seemed deserted and missed the presence of the usually thronged, extravagant French court. By the time the purple of twilight had mingled with the dark, Queen Anne of France was ready for her wedding night.

"You are all dismissed," declared Anne with authority. "I will not need you."

The ladies, whom Marguerite of Navarre had sent to her tonight, bobbed a curtsey. Most of them were uncomfortable with the idea of having Anne Boleyn as their new queen, although some were sympathetic to her plight in England. Obeying, they scurried out.

Tonight, Anne remained in the quarters which had been designated for her after her arrival. King François had said that after the Spanish madness settled down, she would be lodged at new sumptuous chambers, which neither Queen Claude nor Queen Eleanor had occupied before.

The interior was soothing to her doleful mood. A huge, canopied bed, draped with lace bedcovers as delicate as mist, dominated the whole area. The bedside tables were decorated with marble sculptures, all of the matching chairs upholstered in white and golden turquois. Heavily gilded and ornamented with embellishments of epical topics from Homer's Iliad, the oak furniture was scattered about the room tastefully. The walls were covered with fabulous frescoes, depicting ancient goddesses and gods, as well as several paintings by Jean Clouet.

 _It all seems so unreal,_ Anne told herself. Her life seemed to her something akin to a play which, despite being an admirable piece of stagecraft, dealt exclusively with fictional plots. Just as Greece evolved and perfected the idealized life of Homeric poems through the ages, Anne had created the dream of being Henry Tudor's happy consort. Yet, all of her erstwhile dreams had been pathetic illusions, and, instead, life had led her to her former husband's archrival.

The knock on the door moved Anne out of her musings. "Come in, please."

The door flung open, and King François entered with a measured, slow gait. He shut the door behind him and crossed the room. His rich night robe of black silk, wrought with gold and embroidered with the Valois escutcheon, accentuated his athletic slenderness.

"Have you been awaiting me, Madame?" he teased with a wicked grin.

The monarch's gaze traversed his new wife. In a gown of red brocade, worked with silver and ornamented with patterns akin to those from ancient times, Anne seemed to fit in completely with the interior around her, as though she was an embodiment of mythological beauty.

Anne riposted, "At times, high and mighty men are doomed to disappointment."

More taunts spilled out of him. "Maybe I should have ordered the standard consummation of our marriage." He gestured towards the bed. "It would have been so romantic to be together here, separated from my curious courtiers and ambassadors only by bedcurtains."

Her temper flared. "Apparently, Your Majesty has always changed mistresses as often as Zeus betrayed his marital vows to Hera. The only difference between you and Zeus is that he was the King of the Mount Olympus, while you are only the King of France."

He laughed boisterously. "Woman is the only creature whose wit can devour man alive."

"Are you done with joking?" She did not hide her displeasure.

"You do not like our banter, do you?"

Anne hugged herself, as if she were chilled by his mere presence. "It is our duty to make our union valid. Our time is way too valuable to be wasted on trifles."

A derisive comment came from him. "Your pragmatic Majesty, I have no intention of spending the entire night chatting with you. My life keeps diminishing if I waste hours, feeding my favorite distractions, although you are obviously not one of them."

"Let's start, then." She took a tentative step to him.

"This reminds me of a card contest." There was a gleam of laughter in his eyes.

His playful mood did not transmit to her. "Only once, sire. Do not forget this."

The monarch mocked, "Then, by all means, I must please the fierce creature of yours. It would sadden me to know that I failed to make this only time in our marriage a little enjoyable for the siren with dark, hypnotic eyes which hook men to the soul."

François walked to an ornately carved table in the corner. He snuffled out all the candles in the Venetian candelabra, and then did the same to all the candles in the chamber.

"Will darkness make it more bearable?" This time, his tone was considerate.

"Yes, it will." Her voice vibrated with quiet embarrassment.

The king approached his wife as quietly as a panther. His queen wrapped her arms tighter around herself, as if she needed protection from what he would do to her soon. In the moonlight leaking in through the window, their silhouettes projected a sculpted image of dejection.

In a philosophical tone, he articulated, "Perhaps it would have been far better for us to sit side by side on a veranda or a lawn, enjoying conversation, book, or parley."

With a nonchalant air that did not fool him, she said indifferently, "I do not think so, Your Majesty. I want the consummation to happen so that we move on with our own lives, then."

The ruler deadpanned, "My wife's desire is a command for me."

Anne breathed out with a sigh. A wave of nervous frustration washed over her, and she shuddered, as if harried by a wind. Before their wedding, she had attempted to convince herself that her second marriage had been predestined, and that she had no choice but to obey the Lord's will. She had labored to quench her fears, but now, they came crashing down upon her.

A perceptive man by nature, François fathomed her thoughts. " _La belle Anne_ ," he called in the softest accents. "Are you feeling now like a bird trapped under a cat's claws?"

"Something along these lines," she confessed, surprised by his astuteness.

He stepped to her but halted. "Are you afraid of me?"

Her head dropped like she was saying a short prayer. "Not of you, sire."

Experienced in matters of the heart, François rapidly understood everything. Anne had never been with another man, except for Henry, and it was a great sorrow for her that she would not be able to keep herself untainted by others. Like many women, she had once dreamed of sharing every trouble, vexation, and perplexity with Henry. But after the English king's betrayal, her inner realm grew hoary with disillusionment, while outwardly she was immured in ice.

For a moment, their gazes intersected. At this moment, his wife – it sounded oddly natural to him – looked rather forlorn. The bright moonlight lent an indescribable witchery to her lovely countenance that seemed swarthier now, and to her eyes which darkened in sadness.

Driven by the impulse to put her at ease, the monarch closed the gap between them. His arms snaked around her waist, and pressed her to him, aligning her body to his.

"Anne." He cupped her face with a mixture of emotions neither of them could pinpoint. "Now you are feeling like a maid. The reason is that you do not want to and fear to be with a man whom you do not love. You also think that being with someone whom you consider a libertine is not the right thing to do for a decent woman. I'd wager my arm that it is true."

She blanched. "Your Majesty, I mean no offence."

"Shhh," he soothed, his gaze intense, as if he were on alert. "It is not necessary for us to ever be together. Everyone shall think that our marriage was consummated."

Her resolve solidified. "No! I will not give you a reason to dissolve our union."

His eyes were smoldering amber fires beneath the brown brows. "Then, Madame, let me make this night a gorgeous memory for both of us."

Picking her up, François carried Anne to the bed. Together they sank into the welcoming softness of the feather-filled mattress. Softly, almost airily, his lips found hers, his teeth gently catching her bottom lip, and a searing warmth streaked through her. He kissed her with an innate tenderness that surprised both of them, each brush of his lips against hers like petals of a lilac.

As his hand gripped the collar of her night ensemble, her heart thumped in the chest like a bass drum. He did not hurry to undress her as he worked on the fastenings of her robe. His hot blood clamored in his veins, his tongue leisurely exploring her mouth. His body was nearly trembling from the force of passion she had unleashed in him, but he kept his control in check.

Soon, Anne's garments were disposed of and fell in a rumpled heap at the foot of the bed, where François had tossed them. At the sight of his nude spouse, her long, glossy, raven hair falling in a wild array about her alabaster shoulders, his breathing became erratic, like his lungs could not fill up with air fast enough. Two brown pools shone with a dark light of mystery, bewitching like a mermaid's mellifluous songs, and drowning him into their depths.

Her gaze fiery, not vulnerable as one might expect, Anne looked every inch the Goddess Minerva in all her naked glory. In a silvery beam of moonlight, her body was magnificent, like that of Venus, her breasts small and pert, her waist slender and graceful, her hips well curved. Her lean belly betrayed no sign of having expanded itself due to her previous pregnancies.

The king was conscious of an aching tenderness he had never experienced for any other woman before. "You are more beautiful than all of the goddesses from the Mount Olympus."

A faint smile flicked across her visage. "Your Majesty is exaggerating."

"No, I do not." He kissed her ardently, probing the honey of her mouth.

Adroitly, the ruler discarded his clothes, and, fully naked, engulfed her into his arms, like a shroud of gentleness. Most tentatively, he fondled her breast, reveling in the feeling of the satiny texture of the smooth skin. Much to Anne's amazement, this simple contact provoked a lascivious response within her, as the ache in her belly spread outwards, her nipples growing tight.

As if entranced, the queen stared at the king with undisguised curiosity. She took in the high cheekbones and the bold jut of his long Valois nose. His handsome countenance was lordly and arrogant even in the sanctuary of her bedroom, but it was those almond-shaped, thickly lashed eyes, eyes of such an affable amber that she felt a melting sensation just for a moment.

The rays of the moon shone more softly into the chamber, as if subdued for her sake. Yet, the visibility was fine, and she could see his body well. François de Valois was more athletic and taller than her former husband, whose figure had become somewhat burly over years. His magnificent physique, with those straight, slim shoulders and the sleekness of his strong torso, must be fascinating in the eyes of his lovers. _I should not examine him,_ she berated herself.

An impish glint entered his eyes. "Satisfied?"

Anne smothered a gasp of fury. "Speak in this manner to your paramours."

"Oh, really?" he drawled sarcastically. "As you wish."

To François, she was the finest wine from a Bordeaux vineyard and sweet ambrosia all in one. At first, Anne endeavored to navigate through the waves of his amatory caresses, lingering like some plangent tune. His talented mouth rained kisses down her throat, shoulders, and bosom, down farther and farther, until she stopped him, her cheeks stained with pink. François laughed at her, but it was the moment when he decided against any experiments with her.

"I will be careful," he promised, gazing intently into her eyes.

His hands tightening around her hips, the monarch penetrated his spouse with exceeding caution, as if she were a virgin. Buffeted by the elemental emotions which tore through him, he kissed her with urgency, yet holding onto the tiny thread of his self-control. As he froze inside of her, the kiss went on and on, an exploration and a journey into the most enigmatic romantic waters he had ever submerged into. _I've never been so aflame with desire for any other woman, not even for the other Anne,_ the king mused as his tongue tasted the inner recesses of her mouth.

Anne's entire body was now in the grip of sensual havoc, lustful and long-forgotten, as if eternity had passed since she had last performed the rites of the Greek Goddess Aphrodite with Henry. Unexpectedly, François had awakened in Anne a primordial need for sensuality and fecundity in all senses. It was a mind-blowing revelation to her that the French king's ministrations had aroused a tangle of conflicted emotions within her. _This womanizer is too experienced in the art of physical love_ , she thought as her blood hummed with the unwanted thrill of anticipation.

"Fear me not." François lay still inside her.

"I don't." Her eyes, which had been smoky with desire moments ago, now overflowed with fatality. "Those who once felt the breath of death upon their skin do not fear anything."

He cocked an eyebrow. "You fear men. However, not all of us are immoral thugs."

"You are wrong," insisted Anne rebelliously.

This elicited a chuckle from him. "What a bad liar you are, Anne Boleyn."

The monarch moved inside his wife with a dizzying parade of methodical thrusts, pulling himself almost all the way out and then pushing back as far as her silken sheath allowed him to do. Suddenly, Anne heard the amorous hymn of all nymphs in her ears, and she found herself utterly incapable of fighting against the rapacious demands of her feminity. She enfolded her legs around his waist, locking them at the ankles and encouraging him in farther. Raising her hips to meet his thrusts, Anne was sailing towards the chief center of Aphrodite's worship – Paphos.

The king gazed into two dazed pools of amatory foam. "Your eyes are shrouded with a Cyprian haze. Have I taken you to Aphrodite's island of Cyprus, _la belle Anne_?"

His wife stammered, "We are in France, not on some island."

"I can see the truth through you." His kisses grew hotter and more intimate. "Let's sail to Aphrodite's birthplace less rapidly." He then slowed the pace of his thrusts.

His lips like soft rain upon hers, François maintained a musical rhythm of their encounter, as if they were performing a pavane. The airy movements of his hips created tantalizing magic between them – one which neither of them had ever felt before, and which launched them into intoxicating ascent towards the acme of gratification. All of a sudden, a tide of lingering pleasure crashed over them, swallowing both of them inch by inch, until an avalanche of celestial delight rocked over them in limitless succession, the song of procreation thrumming through them.

Attuned to his new wife in a way he could not quite comprehend, the ruler pulled her into his arms. Brushing his mouth across hers, he murmured, "How are you feeling, Anne?"

Her eyes flashed like steel. "I would prefer to be alone now."

François wound his arm around her waist. "Acts which produce useful results seem to be ordered by an admirable logic. But even rational scientists such as my dearly departed Leonardo da Vinci sometimes allow themselves to plunge into a sensual laziness of mind and body."

She wriggled out of his grasp, which he loosened because she evidently wanted to be free. Avoiding eye contact, she rolled to her side of the bed and snuggled into the covers.

"Your immediate instinct is to escape, but you cannot because I'm a king. Do you really believe that you will forget what has just happened between us?"

"Yes! As it means nothing to me, I'll easily efface it from my mind." Wrapping herself in a sheet, Anne shot off the bed as though she had been fired from a cannon.

"Very well, Madame." The moon had been concealed behind a cloud, so he scrambled into his robe in the dark. "It is not my pastime to pursue women who do not want to be with me."

Anne stood in the corner, with her back to him. "Sire, you extol chivalry and call women flowers. We have an agreement, so you must abide by it."

Concealing his hurt, François jeered, "I shall, Madame. You are a rare, exotic flower that might wither without tenderness. It would be interesting if you found yourself with child after this night." It was instinctual on his part to say that.

§§§

The King of France closed the door of his new consort's bedchamber. Leaning against the wall, he stood in the dimply lit corridor, his irritation festering into a hardened attitude to her.

"You have chosen loneliness, Anne," he told himself, sighing in mingled annoyance and sadness. "So, I'll live as if I were a free man."

The contentment of all human beings, men and women, depended largely on the erotic concepts. If they were not joined in matrimony, the amorous rites between a man and his lady were the special urge in their souls. _Usually marriage is entirely for procreation, just as my dynastic union with Claude was_. _But I've wed Anne only to save France._ _So, I can have as many lovers as I wish, in particular because my wife denies me the marriage bed_ , François meditated.

Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly was the king's chief paramour, while Claude de Rohan-Gié often warmed his bed. Occasionally, François also indulged in random affairs with pretty female courtiers, at times with expensive courtesans and simple whores. Despite being a staunch Catholic, François would never agree with the men of ecclesiastical rank that physical love was a terrible sin unless it was practiced for procreation. On the contrary, it affected the very root of human life, being a natural and instinctive function for any man, especially a monarch.

As if persuading himself, François muttered, "The other Anne and Claude will both be excellent replacements for my unruly spouse."

"Your Majesty!" one of the royal grooms cried as he appeared in the corridor.

"Bring me the best wine from my cellars," his sovereign enjoined. "I'll be in my gallery." He stomped away into the adjacent hallway, the grandeur around the king only irritating him.

§§§

After François had vacated the room, Queen Anne lit many candles. She was flustered and frustrated, as well as intimidated by the odd emotions her husband had roused in her.

As she froze near the bed, she scrutinized her naked form, as if seeing herself for the first time. Bewildered, she felt herself alive, as though the air was thick with transcendental vivacity. Her intercourse with him was not simple: François had transformed an act of duty into an artistic dance of passion, forcing her rigid body to undergo the shattering metamorphosis in his arms.

She had known a man's passion in the past. Henry had frequently taken her with slavish devotion in the days when he had still loved her, and, as the awful rift between them had been deepening, their couplings had still been charged with primeval need. Nonetheless, she had been unprepared that she could experience such a colossal, exquisite pleasure with another man.

Anne still felt François' seed inside of her and wet on her thighs, which disconcerted her slightly. Instinctively, her hand flew to her abdomen, like a pregnant woman touching her belly lovingly. Panic reared in her bosom, and questions circled her mind. _What if I conceived tonight? What if I give birth to François' child? Would it be a boy or a girl? No, that is not possible!_

The feeling that something would go not as she had planned crystallized in her universe. All hope for the future without a man's presence in her life commenced crumbling. Suddenly shy of her own nudity, she spun around and hastily donned her fashionable nightgown.

"I will not get pregnant," Anne endeavored to convince herself. She sat at her dressing table and eyed her flushed face in a looking glass. "One night means nothing."

She trembled at the remembrance of her night with Henry when they had danced La Volta and lost themselves in a bacchic festival of insanity afterwards. In the past, one night had been enough for her to conceive a son, who had died in her womb due to Henry's adulterous kiss with that Seymour slut. Usually, Anne got pregnant quickly, but had problems to carry a child to term.

 _It would be interesting if you found yourself with child after this night._

The French ruler's voice echoed through her head like prophecy of something wonderful to come. Anne, nevertheless, banished the thought from her head, although she knew that such a possibility existed, because she was still young and fertile. _Love, promises, demands to give sons, infidelities, miscarriages… These words make me want to slap someone,_ she lamented.

She commanded herself, "I shall not think of such trifles. My marital life is over."

§§§

Unable to sleep, the French monarch went to the François I gallery, his favorite place in the whole château. Sitting in an armchair, he held a goblet of wine in his hand, sipping it slowly and savoring the taste, his thoughts churning like a tempestuous sea.

His mind meandered to his two previous wedding nights. François and Claude of France had been very young when entering into matrimony. Fresh, innocent, and fragile like a delicate lily, Claude had submitted herself to him, and he had initiated her into the pleasures of physical love in the most gratifying way. François had disliked Eleanor of Austria so much that he had run away from her immediately after their first intercourse, which had been neither pleasurable nor painful for her, as he had been almost like a stranger with her; they had never been intimate again.

 _I want the consummation to happen so that we move on with our own lives, then._

Anne's words were a significant blow to the monarch's pride and vanity. These his two qualities could be measured by nothing but each other, because they were both unbounded in a royal way. No woman had ever dared speak to him in such a high-handed manner. In fact, he had never been rejected before. Years ago, only Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, had resisted his advances for a short while, but he had seduced her with relative ease.

His wedding night with Anne was different. She had tasted sins of the flesh with Henry of England, so François had not taught her the art of physical love. Passionate and tempting like a nymph, she nonetheless remained loyal to the idea of an undying love which was unblemished by earthly filth, especially betrayal, ambition, and egotism. Admiring her for that, François had made love to her, as if he were worshiping the body of a goddess, taking care of her pleasure before his own. There had been nothing during their encounter he had not wanted to do to please Anne, even though there had been hundreds of things she had feared.

 _Marguerite is right that I crave to love a great woman, to hold her close to my heart, one I could touch and do amazing things for._ He would worship such a lady with a love proceeding from the heart and flowing outwardly in the most beatific ways. In adolescence, dreams of pure, eternal, legendary love – one which defies blood, distance, and destiny – had assaulted him, but, over the course of time, he begun believing that such thoughts had sprung from his lonely heart.

"Anne Boleyn is my wife," uttered François in disbelief. Having finished off his goblet, he set it on a nearby table. "It is incredible that I begin liking my unusual marriage."

"Talking to yourself, brother?"

The monarch flicked his gaze to the door, where Marguerite stood. Like him, she was in her night attire – an elegant robe of blue velvet, lined with white taffeta and embroidered on the right shoulder with the Valois escutcheon and on the left one with the Albert coat-of-arms.

"Margot," he greeted with a smile. "You are the only one who I need now."

She closed the door and walked to him. "How was your wedding night?"

"You can guess how it all ended. After all, I'm here now."

"Naturally." She settled in an armchair beside him. "How does it feel to be rejected for the first time in your life? You broke the hearts of countless women."

After a short silence, the king stated, "I do not love Anne, so my heart does not hurt."

Marguerite laughed. "Your pride has been injured. Hear sensational tidings! Not every lady wishes to be with the magnificent François de Valois."

A scowl marred his forehead. "Stop making a laughingstock out of me, sister."

"That is not my intention, my dearest brother. But I have to confess that I find the whole affair amusing from the female standpoint. A great many women weep when kings and all other men do not return their amorous sentiments or break relationships with them. Women – romantic creatures – are frequently enslaved to the illusion of a man's love, while you men use and discard us, occasionally in a cruel manner. I cannot help but see life's unfairness to ladies."

"You reckon I needed a lesson," the ruler guessed.

"Yes, François. It will be a challenge for you to conquer Anne's affection."

The monarch stared at her as if she were a lunatic. "Excuse me, but last time I checked I had no obsessive feelings for Anne such as Henry once had. I find my wife alluring, and I want her as a woman. Yet, I will not waste my time on her when I can invest it in something else."

She leaned back in her seat. "I doubt Henry has ever loved the real Anne."

"Perhaps not." His voice was layered with slight vexation. For some reason, he did not like the thought that his English rival could still harbor feelings for _his new spouse_.

Marguerite scrutinized her brother, whose face seemed paler than usual even in the flickering candlelight. "I have no doubt that you will welcome Anne de Pisseleu in your bed." She smiled. "But your mind will always revert to Anne Boleyn – _your wife_. She is the greatest enigma for you, layers upon layers which you long to discover."

The king glanced at the fresco of the Goddess Aphrodite's birth. "I'm not a cat toying with a mouse, and neither is Anne. We will go on separate paths from here on."

The Queen of Navarre forecasted, "One day, all of your and her claims will vanish into the air as sand sifts through a person's fingers. Like Aphrodite's birth, true love emerges from a sea, where adoration, understanding, appreciation, and respect commingle with common values. You and Anne have a lot in common, actually more than she and Henry have ever had."

A smile twitched in the corner of his mouth. "You are a bad prophet, then."

"We shall see." His sister had a good presentiment about her brother's marriage.

"Margot, I've seen the future. It is very much like the present, only longer."

The ruler's sister laughed. "The best qualification of a prophet is to have a good memory. And I have a good one: tonight, you and Anne were together, and perhaps she conceived. From what we know about her life with Henry, she must be quite fertile. After Elizabeth Tudor's birth, her relationship with him swiftly transformed into a corpse, and he could ignore her for months. Yet, Anne was pregnant twice in the past two years, so she must have conceived quickly."

"Anne suffered miscarriages," recalled François. "Claude had one as well."

Marguerite perused the statue of Hera, the Greek goddess of marriage and procreation. "Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn! Their childbearing histories are interesting and look similar even at first glance. Catherine had many miscarriages and stillbirths, and she only gave Henry a daughter, Mary. Anne birthed Elizabeth and then miscarried twice."

The conclusion hung in the air between them before the king voiced it. "Maybe Henry is not blameless for his lack of male progeny, although he would never admit such a thought."

"No man will ever deflate his own ego, especially a kingly ego; not even you, François."

Her brother grinned. "But I'm not Henry, and I _have sons_."

Suddenly, a shadow of foreboding crept into her breast. "Let's just say that you _can have male children_. No one knows the ways of providence, and we can only pray for God's grace."

"True." He felt the same unease gnawing at his insides.

She switched to another topic. "Something must be wrong with Henry, not with Catherine and Anne. Some curse or illness prevents him from siring _healthy_ children. He does not have many robust offspring, despite having numberless mistresses. His only illegitimate son – Henry FitzRoy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset – died a couple of months ago."

François crossed himself. "I despise Henry, but I do commensurate with his losses. None of his sons lived to adulthood. My own eldest son passed away so unexpectedly."

His words struck the Navarrese queen like a chill of presentiment. "Do not dwell on the sad past, brother. Unlike Henry, you have _healthy legitimate and illegitimate_ issue, both male and female. Anne and you are both young and fertile, so you can have many children in the future."

A sting of hurt lanced through him. "Only if she stops denying me the marriage bed."

"She will," Marguerite assured. "Eventually. No one can resist you magical touch!"

He grinned conceitedly, but then sighed. "No one, save my own wife."

François mentally pronounced his spouse's name. Anne Boleyn… These words worked wonders on the ruler, as if transfiguring him into a seeker of something deeply spiritual in the realm of earthly existence. For the first time, the monarch was conscious of a vehement possession and of a poignant tenderness, which he should not have felt for his wife. Even though she was not fond of him, the seeds of sublime immortality had been planted into the fabrics of his life.

His train of thought floated to the kingdom's perilous predicament. "At present, there are far more important things to worry about. I shall protect France and defeat that Spanish rat." He clenched his fists into balls of fury. "I just need to understand how to outwit Carlos."

* * *

 _I hope that you liked this chapter. Finally, Anne is the Queen of France._

 _Finally, Anne and François are married, but she does not wish to be with him for many reasons – she does not want to have another man, especially not a king, in her life. Many reviewers said that Anne and François are more compatible than Henry and Anne are, and I agree with them. However, Anne lost her faith in love, and she hates the very idea of being married to another king._

 _Do you like Anne and François' wedding night? I tried to make it beautiful despite her unwillingness to be with her new husband. Their emotions are the focus of the wedding night episode._ _What does fate have in stock for her and her new French husband?_

 _François is not going to discard his mistresses any time soon because he is not in love with Anne at this stage. Moreover, it will take François much time to fall for his new wife because he will be away from court during the Franco-Imperial war. François spends more than a year fighting against the emperor, and although he meets with Anne from time to time as she comes to him or he comes to court, they remain strangers for months. Eventually, François will be in love with Anne and will be faithful to her._

 _This story consists of three parts: "War" that ends in chapter 17, "Vengeance" that ends in chapter 33 or 34, and "Love". Then it will depend on my creative muse how the story unfolds._

 _Vesta was the Roman virgin goddess of the hearth, home, and family. Entry to her temple was allowed only to her priestesses – the Vestals, who tended the sacred fire in her temple._

 _Minerva was the Roman goddess of wisdom and strategic warfare and the sponsor of arts, trade, and strategy._

 _Aphrodite was an ancient Greek goddess of love, beauty, pleasure, and procreation. Aphrodite was said to have been born near her chief center of worship, Paphos, on the island of Cyprus._

 _Louis, Count de Vaudémont (he is a younger brother of Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise) died in 1528. However, I need him alive in this AU, so he makes a short appearance in this chapter._

 _Please, leave a review on this chapter. Reviews always encourage an author to update and make them happy! Thank you very much in advance._

 _Attention: if you love Anne, I recommend that you check the works of Violet Rose Lily. They are wonderful!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	6. Chapter 5: The Icy Coldness of a Hand

**Chapter 5: The Icy Coldness of a Hand**

 ** _September 7, 1536, the Palace of Whitehall, London, England_**

The sun had already started its upward journey, warming the earth and the white-ashlar, brick-vaulted walls and roof of Whitehall. The wind from the River Thames was pushing a bank of arrow-shaped clouds across the firmament, and a nip of autumn was in the air.

King Henry directed his scrutiny at his new spouse, Queen Jane Seymour. "Sweetheart, the Lady Mary has become a frequent guest in your quarters."

"That is true, Your Majesty," answered his spouse with a jovial smile. "Mary is sweet and affectionate. She is everything I hoped she would be."

"Very well," he muttered absently.

The English royal couple sat at the table full of delicious victuals. There was mallard, some vegetables, and custard on the queen's platter. As the ruler had a special appetite for meat, dishes of spit-roasted meat, venison, heron, whale meat, egret, and so forth were served. A jag of fresh milk and a decanter of wine were brought for the queen and king, respectively.

Her smile widening, Jane continued, "I'm proud of my stepdaughter! It is no wonder that she is so marvelously beloved for her virtue and her goodness in the hearts of people."

The ruler's expression was distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. "I'm happy that your relationship with Mary has progressed to the point of such close friendship."

Morning light streamed in through the windows of the royal apartments, providing a soft glow to the creamy eggshell and beige décor. In spite of being quite warm, the light had that mellow, melancholic quality to it that was ordinary for this time of the year.

King Henry had established Whitehall as his chief residence in London in 1530. Before his removal from power in 1529, Cardinal Wolsey had owned the former York Place. Wolsey had had the house expanded and rebuilt on a magnificent scale. Having inherited the core of the cardinal's mansion, the Great Hall, the Chapel Royal, and the vaulted wine cellars, the Tudor ruler had embarked on an extensive rebuilding programme: the turreted Whitehall Gate had been erected in 1531-1532, new gardens and orchards had been set out. Here Henry had celebrated his marriage to Anne Boleyn over three years ago, and his union with Jane Seymour a few months earlier.

Until his wedding to Jane Seymour, the interior in the king's quarters had been in red. Henry and Anne had wanted to associate everything around them with the intense color of love, passion, and desire. All of the gilded armchairs and chairs, made out of dark walnut, had been upholstered in crimson velvet. A large canopied bed with the carved headboard had been draped in scarlet silk. Coverlets, carpets, and tablecloths had all been in that color as well. The walls had been swathed in crimson brocade and decorated with frescoes in the French style.

Yearning to start a new life with his beloved Jane, Henry had enjoined to erase each and every trace of his exiled former sweetheart. All the portraits, sketches, and miniatures of Anne Boleyn had been destroyed. The symbols of Anne and Henry's romance – the entwined letters 'H' and 'A' – had been removed from the monarch's quarters and from everywhere else in the palace. It had been forbidden from pronouncing the name of the Boleyn whore.

In the refurbished ruler's rooms, against beige-colored walls, some of which were hung with tapestries of hunting and outdoor activities, were set pieces of oak, heavily carved furniture. There were no fabulous frescoes on the walls and no tapestries of mythological scenes, which was too French-like in Henry's mind and, hence, could remind him of Anne. On the scrubbed wooden floors brightly colored rugs were scattered. The new huge canopy bed, set upon a dais at the far end of his bedchamber, was draped with yards of creamy-white taffeta.

Henry took a goblet of wine and sipped some. "I confess that I'm confused as to your behavior. You have not visited the Princess Elizabeth even once since our wedding."

Fear lurked in Jane's eyes. "Your Majesty, I… I…"

"What, Jane? Speak instead of stammering." His tone was censorious.

"I thought that you would not approve of my attention to the girl." She did not refer to Elizabeth as royalty, because the child was a bastard in her opinion.

Forking a chunk of venison into his mouth, he chewed while talking. "I ejected her Jezebel mother of a whore from my realm. However, Elizabeth is a princess of the blood and my heir until a son is born out of our union." He instructed her through slitted eyes, "You must become a motherly figure for Elizabeth. Split your time between my two daughters."

She finished off her mallard. "I'll do as you wish, sire."

Henry guessed that her consent was reluctant. "She is just a little girl, even though she has the Boleyn harlot's blood in her veins." His eyes shone with pride as he added, "She is my daughter! One look at her is enough to see that she is a Tudor through and through."

Jane's countenance revealed confusion. _Does he really miss Elizabeth? He did not show any inclination to see her after the whore's arrest. He even ordered to keep her away from him after the harlot's release from the Tower._ Her husband's behavior puzzled her, and she wished to learn its cause, and even more to predict the changes in his treatment of the girl.

After Anne Boleyn's departure from England, King Henry had sent Elizabeth away from court to her residence, Hatfield House. The Catholic faction, which consisted of Catherine of Aragon's supporters, were all happy that Anne had been set aside and exiled. Yet, to their utmost chagrin, the girl remained a princess in spite of her mother's disgrace. The monarch continued generously financing her household, but the child was not in favor.

Finally, Lady Mary Tudor had been coerced into submission to the royal will. Under the threat of imprisonment, she had signed the Oath of Supremacy and acknowledged her mother's union with the king as incestuous and illegitimate. Although the ruler's eldest daughter had been reunited with his father, Henry had not lavished her with affection and kept her at arm's length, remaining wary around her, as if expecting that she could repudiate her own oath.

It irked Jane that the daughter of the Boleyn strumpet was still treated with respect. As she had always been devoted to Catherine, the true Queen of England before her wedding to Henry, she viewed Mary as the rightful Princess of Wales until she birthed the king's son. Thus, her spouse's requests to replace Elizabeth's mother had discomfited Jane, to say the least.

Reading her mind, Henry coaxed, "As soon as you see Elizabeth, you will adore her. She is a charming and precocious girl. Even those who dislike Anne tend to love her."

There was a docile smile on his queen's visage. "I'll do whatever you order, sire."

A baffled rage flickered in the small aquamarine eyes. "You do not even want to see the princess, do you? Do you loathe my little girl because you hate her mother?"

At this, Jane stiffened, his question coming too close to the mark. "I swear I do not have any negative attitude towards the Princess Elizabeth. A child is innocent of its mother's sins. I just have no idea how to behave around her, for she will ask many questions about her mother. I'm also afraid of doing something that might displease Your Majesty."

The ruler popped a piece of egret into his mouth before saying levelly, "Elizabeth is not her mother's creature. Our task is to ensure that she becomes an intelligent, brilliant, and virtuous princess, who shall make the House of Tudor proud and elevate it on the international arena."

"Of course. You have a father's pride in your voice."

Taking her hand in his, the monarch spoke persuasively. "Jane, sweetheart, you have the immaculate heart of the Virgin Mary. You helped me reconcile with my stubborn eldest daughter, and, by doing so, proved that you are as benevolent as only saints can be. We must raise Elizabeth together, which is why you need to try and become a mother to her."

The queen drank some milk. "I'll try to befriend her, then."

A dawning realization that today was a special day painted his expression. "I should have fetched Elizabeth to court last week. It is her birthday, and she is alone."

She chuckled. "You can still go to your daughter, sire."

"That is exactly what I'll do after our meal!" His gaze flittered to the window, where the sun almost reached its midday zenith. "I'll ride to Hatfield and meet with my girl."

"We might invite the princess to court, if you wish it." She was not fond of this idea, but she would do anything to please Henry, who had already made his position clear.

At the snap of the king's fingers, a roasted peacock, dressed in its own iridescent blue feathers, was ceremoniously brought by the servants. Dishes of lobster and marzipan, flavored with cinnamon and pepper, were served for Jane, who also ordered pineapple.

The rest of the meal was spent in grave silence. Jane attempted some small talk, but Henry merely grunted something in response. The sun's rays, streaming in behind him, shadowed his features, but for one fleeting second, she thought that she had seen a flash of delight in his eyes as she asked him about Elizabeth's language talents which she had heard about a lot.

While eating the peacock rapaciously, the king boasted, "Elizabeth is so clever! Lady Bryan, her governess, says that my girl has excelled in learning some French and Italian, which she has been teaching her according to her mother's instructions." He paused, grimacing at the mention of Anne. "Lady Bryan recommends that we hire a talented tutor for Elizabeth."

Jane flinched inwardly, but forced a smile. Questions besieged her consciousness. Did the monarch's fondness of Elizabeth mean that part of him still loved Anne Boleyn? She had sworn that she would not fail where her predecessors had done. She must be destined to give him a healthy son, the living image of his father, who would displace the whore's daughter in the line of succession to the English throne. Unfortunately, Jane was not pregnant yet.

A leaden silence ensued, lengthening nearly into a lifetime. When the servants began clearing the table, the ruler still said nothing to his wife, his countenance impenetrable.

"Your Majesty," the queen addressed him. "Why would you not speak to me?"

"Because I'm disappointed," snapped the King of England.

Jane's visage paled. "Why?"

There was a short pause as Henry surveyed his wife. Her countenance demure, quiet and modest grace emanating from her, Jane Seymour was lovely in the traditional English way, with soft gray eyes and silken, long, blond tresses. In a gown of creamy brocade worked with threads of silver, with the high neckline, she embodied purity, compassion, obedience, and dedication to serve her sovereign, just as her motto proclaimed – _'Bound to obey and serve'_.

The queen's stomacher of silver silk glittered with white pearls, as did her massive pearl and sapphire necklace on the bosom. Jane preferred light colors and favored pearls, which fitted all of her dressing ensembles perfectly. _She is as pure as a Vestal priestess, although I made her a woman on our wedding night._ _She is not a sprightly brunette, with orient orbs, black as midnight._ Mentally, the king castigated himself for again comparing Jane to the vile slut.

In an icy voice, Henry uttered, "You are not yet with child."

Her face fell, as if the whole earth had crashed upon her. "Your Majesty, I pray for a healthy son every day twice. Nothing can make me happier than the news of my pregnancy."

"If you do not conceive soon, we will need to consult Doctor Butts."

Jane laced her hands in her lap like a chaste maid. "I can do this today."

The ruler shook his head. "It is not necessary, Jane. After all, we have been married only for three months. But I expect that you will fall pregnant by Christmas tide."

She nodded timidly. "I'll pray harder and more for a child."

His bad temper vanishing, Henry grinned at her and raised his chalice in a toast. "To our son! To the glorious Tudor prince who will rule England after me as King Edward VI!" As he drank heartily, he supplemented, "I love you, Jane, actually more than Catherine and Anne. But if you birth me a male heir, my love for your will be endless and everlasting."

Her smile communicated some unease. "God will bless us with a son, Your Majesty."

§§§

After he had left Queen Jane, King Henry set off to Hatfield in the company of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. Sitting astride his white stallion, caparisoned in purple damask down to the ground, with the harness embroidered with gold and a pale of yellow velvet, the king trotted through the streets of London, followed by his boyhood friend and a squad of guards.

"More quickly, Charles," enjoined the English monarch as he spurred on his horse.

"Yes, sire." The Duke of Suffolk urged his mount to pick up its pace.

As streets and people flickered before him, Henry reflected on his third marriage. He was happy to have Jane as a wife, who was all sweetness and blessed in a way that the Boleyn temptress had never been. He had convinced himself that his third wife was the love of his life, while his feelings for Anne Boleyn and Catherine of Aragon had paled in comparison to those for Jane.

In the months which had elapsed since Anne's departure into exile, his mind had gone through some remarkable phases. At first, the excitement of his passion for Jane had obscured everything else, while his hatred for Anne had been growing with every passing day. To his surprise, his life with Jane had moved into the immense inertia of habit and routine too quickly to his liking. Everything in his marriage was smooth and unbearably soft: their relationship was like a waveless calm, the slumber of the dead, without any fire burning and scorching him.

Henry craved adventure and the wildness of amorous sensations with Jane. He wished to spend nights with his wife, discovering body parts and places unseen, receiving a colossal pleasure that was beyond description. But Jane was so submissive and too meek in bed that their encounters were as insipid as the herb waters his physician gave him in his attempts to cure his ulcerated leg. For some time, Henry had labored to experiment sensually with Jane, and once he had engaged her in an intense and a bit rough lovemaking, but she had been too frightened, as if he were Satan preaching a sermon on holiness, despite having submitted her pale form to his wickedness.

The mind of the lustful Tudor monarch had been disturbed by visions of a lascivious Jane until he realized that they were a mere figment of his imagination. In the past few weeks, the need for fire had started reasserting itself in his unsatisfied body, and so Henry had taken a new mistress – Lady Anne Bassett who served in his wife's household. His passion for the Lady Bassett was vehement and wild; every time he took her, he felt like a soldier who had been deprived of a woman's tenderness for too long, while she gloried in their shared heat. Yet, Henry needed the fire of Anne Boleyn, which was still a fever in his blood.

 _That Boleyn whore is not here – she left my kingdom on my own orders._ At this moment, the streets thronged with people, the buildings and markets around him – everything seemed alien to Henry, as if his world had upended, and he walked across the canvass of his life like a stranger to his own existence. A torrent of longing for Anne rushed into the vacuum of his inner realm, and he could not stifle it, for the hunger for her had long crept into the flesh of his being.

Henry veered his gaze to his companion. "I crave to see Elizabeth!" At this moment, being close to his baby girl was tantamount to having a piece of Anne.

Turning away, the monarch did not see Charles frown slightly. The duke held no grudge against the girl, whom his lies about Anne's adultery had robbed of her mother. He did not want Elizabeth to be in too much favor with her parent. He would always remain loyal to the memory of the great Queen Catherine, who had been treated horribly due to the whore's viciousness. _It is unfair that Mary is a bastard, while Elizabeth is still a princess,_ Charles thought.

The king's voice interrupted his subject's musings. "Elizabeth must be having many good dreams about her papa every night. Today she will be delighted to see me."

"I'm sure she will." Suffolk plastered a smile on his otherwise sullen countenance.

Tightening the reins, the ruler eyed their surroundings. They were already in the suburbs of the capital and were now moving further north towards Hertfordshire.

His features contorting, Henry gritted out, "I need my girl to be totally free from Anne's evil spell." Softening, he affirmed in a calmer voice, "Children are so innocent that they look up to and imitate those closest to them. That is why Jane must spend more time with my daughter in order to educate her upon pure and undefiled moral principles."

His loathing for Anne gladdened Suffolk. "Queen Jane will be a far better mother to your daughter than the harlot. She will teach the princess to be truly virtuous and honorable."

Nodding, the English monarch kicked his horse into a gallop; others followed suit. In the matter of minutes, the city was left behind. They rode across the stubble fields, stretching across rolling hills and the valley, broken up by ravines tinged with verdant trees and shrubs. The thunder of hooves was a growing cascade of sound, as the royal party accelerated their speed and soon entered the Hatfield Royal Hunting Forest that dated to the time of the Norman kings.

In a village in the vicinity of Hatfield, King Henry commanded to pause as a well-garbed couple came into sight. Some landowner and his young wife oversaw the harvesting and threshing of the grain as their tenants worked. As soon as they noticed the royal party, they recognized the Tudor standard and hastened to meet their sovereign. As the ruler hopped down from his stallion, the lord dropped into a servile bow, while his spouse made an awkward curtsey.

"Your Majesty!" The man had seen his liege lord only once in London years ago. Being the master of a small manor, he did not have enough funds to live at court. "We are overjoyed to see you! We will gladly give you a tour of our cozy estate. We are Lord and Lady–"

Henry interrupted, "Your name does not matter at all." His scrutiny flicked to his wife. "Your spouse will have an exciting dance with me, but you will not be present."

After a moment's pause, the lord connected the dots. Rumors about the King of England's hunting parties in the countryside together with the Duke of Suffolk and his other favorites were infamous even in the provincial noble circles. Charles Brandon's knowing smirk proved the monarch's intentions, and the man resolved to use the matter to his advantage.

Dismounting, Suffolk quizzed, "Where can they go to be alone?" It was not the first time when he arranged his liege lord's extramarital affairs during their hunting trips.

The lord pointed towards a house in the fields. "There! It is our small hunting manor."

"Excellent." There was a muffled shout of laughter from Brandon.

Henry's eyes roamed with increasing hunger over the unknown lady's plump figure clad in a plain gown of brown velvet ornamented with pearls. Her strawberry blonde curls framed her attractive face tinctured with a hint of befuddlement, which amused him a lot. The English women all rightfully belonged to their sovereign, and all of his random lovers usually remained satisfied. As his gaze rested on her finely formed mouth, Henry hardened with desire.

"Go," the man commanded his wife. "Do not make His Majesty wait."

The woman looked abashed. "But..." Her voice faltered.

Her husband barked, "Yield yourself to the king."

Henry stepped to her. "You will not regret it, my dear."

In a few minutes, the ruler was already undressing himself inside the cottage. As he closed the gap between them, the woman backed away in uncertainty. He beckoned her to him and suddenly swept her up in his arms, then carried her to a bed hung with old blue damask.

"You are a lovely little piece," he murmured lustfully. "You will like my passion."

Some of her hesitation evaporated. "Will you… give me pleasure, sire?"

The aquamarine gaze glittered enticingly. "Your husband is unlikely to be an experienced lover." He kissed her on the mouth. "But it is a delightful game, so let's play it now."

She peeled off her dress, then tossed it on the floor. Henry enveloped her into his arms, and his lips marauded down the side of her neck. The woman was thrilled that the mighty King of England, tall and strong, wanted her; the skin of his slightly burly body was warm to her touch, his voice was so husky and deep. When his hands strayed to her breasts and down her abdomen, taking exciting liberties, a string of groans erupted from her. During the next two hours, the lovers copulated in the lewdest manner, and the monarch did not need to worry about position or mindless patter as she opened to him willingly and matched him each time he thrust into her.

* * *

 _ **September 7, 1536, Hatfield House, Hatfield, Hertfordshire, England** _

By the time the royal procession had finally arrived at Hatfield, the sun's disk commenced its decline towards the horizon. As soon as the cavalcade stopped in the vast, green park shadowed by the falling twilight, the Tudor ruler swung off the saddle and headed to the entrance. After dismounting, the Duke of Suffolk led the reins of his liege lord's horse to a stable boy.

The front door opened, and Elizabeth Tudor appeared outside, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. At the sight of the king, the women all lowered themselves into curtseys.

As her initial amazement faded, Princess Elizabeth darted to him, like a dove pursued by a hawk, and launched herself headlong into his embrace. Laughing blithesomely, King Henry scooped her into his arms and twirled her around like a dancer, then held her close.

Lady Margaret Bryan, Elizabeth's governess, and the others watched the ruler's reunion with the child with festive expressions. Even Anne's enemy, Charles Brandon, could not suppress a smile, for the scene was too heartwarming to remain indifferent to it.

As they parted, Elizabeth effused, "Papa! You have come to my birthday!"

The monarch let out a cheerful smile. "Of course, I'm here, my Elizabeth. How could I forget about this special day? I have a wonderful gift for you!"

"What is it?" Curiosity flashed in the dark eyes of Anne Boleyn's daughter.

All of a sudden, Henry found himself distressed in mind, body, and spirit. Time, which usually alleviated ordinary sorrows, served only to augment the severity of his grief over Anne's alleged betrayals. He had become an inhabitant of the perpetual realm where the ghost of Anne haunted him like a specter. Today, he had thought of the adulteress all the time against his will, and the familiar sense of wonder gripped him as he peered into his daughter's eyes.

Two brown pools of magical depth! _A pair of dark eyes_ _identical to Anne's,_ Henry half-complained, half-grumbled in his mind. _They are hooking me to my daughter's soul, just as Anne's witchery once enslaved me to her._ In Elizabeth's eyes, he deciphered a faint trace of accusation, as if she were silently reproaching him for separating her from her mother. At this moment, the girl's two caverns seemed literally to kindle, which reminded him of Anne's so much that he could scarcely conceive the animation in his daughter's countenance.

"Papa?" called Elizabeth, infectious enthusiasm written all over her features.

Lady Bryan took a step towards them and entered the conversation. "Your Highness, you should abide by the royal protocol and greet your father as a king."

The girl's expression changed into sadness. "But I have not seen him for so long!"

Like all the members of Elizabeth's household, the governess and others were eager to do anything in their power to emphasize the child's royal status. Most of them were aware that Anne's condemnation was unfair, so they pitied the former Queen of England who had been ousted of her home country and would probably never see her only child again. They also worked hard to demolish the gossip that the girl's legitimacy was doubtful.

The monarch hurried to put the old woman at ease. "It is fine, Lady Bryan. The affairs of state kept me occupied at court, but I've come to see my dear girl as soon as I could."

Lady Bryan opined, "The princess is a credit to Your Majesty."

A smiling Henry shifted his eyes to the girl. "Definitely! She is too young to live at court, for a child of her tender age would fare better in the quiet, healthy countryside. When she grows into the most beautiful and intelligent princess in Christendom, she will be a true ornament of the Tudor court, until she becomes a queen consort of some foreign ruler."

"Your Majesty loves the girl so much!" The governess was pleased that the king was so well disposed towards her charge. "The princess is too precocious for her age."

Henry whispered, "I do love her, despite everything." Margaret Bryan smiled.

"And my gift?" interjected Elizabeth.

Grinning to herself, Lady Margaret bobbed a curtsey and took several steps aside.

"It is here, my Elizabeth!" exclaimed the monarch.

Henry procured a wrapped object from the pocket of his doublet. As he unfolded it, a small, oval-cut diamond necklace with a ruby pendant came into view. As he fastened it around her neck, his daughter squealed in joy, her smile brighter than a thousand candles.

The royal lips stretched into a grin. "Do you like it?"

Elizabeth looked every inch a majestic little princess in a gown of green silk wrought with gold. She could be _only his daughter_! The girl's long, thick hair – the red-gold Tudor, like the gilt-edge pages of the illuminated Bible he had gifted to Anne years ago – framed her delicate features. There was a remarkable air of strength, purity, and enigma about this creature.

The princess admired the glittering jewels on her bosom. "My papa! Thank you, papa! I knew that you could not have forgotten me! I love the gift and you!"

Once more, Henry hugged his daughter tight to his chest. She pressed herself to him as if she wanted to crawl inside him and never let him go. In these jovial moments, Henry's mind detoured to her mother again: he wondered what Anne was now doing in France.

The girl disentwined herself from his embrace, her expression sulky. "I'm happy to see you, papa! But I want my mama with me! Why have you not allowed her to visit me?"

A sigh erupted from her father. "Your mother left us, my dear girl."

Audaciously, Elizabeth confronted him, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Lady Bryan does not answer my questions about my mama, because she has an order to be silent. But I heard my ladies gossip that you had punished my mama for something wicked she supposedly did." Her bottom lip trembled. "But my mama would not do anything bad to you."

Henry was at a loss for words. "You are too small to understand the truth."

"I am not stupid!" The princess set her chin at a rebellious angle. "You just wanted to take another wife. If you love me, give me my mama back."

Her heart palpitating with anguish, Elizabeth swiveled gracefully. Without curtseying to her royal parent, she fled into the gardens, throttling the urge to weep.

"Princess Elizabeth!" shrilled the girl's shocked governess. "Your Highness!'

Several ladies-in-waiting ran after the escaping princess, but Lady Bryan dithered.

"I'm so sorry, sire," Margaret Bryan muttered.

Barely holding onto his temper, Henry instructed, "Go find my daughter. I'll be staying at Hatfield for some time; soon, Elizabeth and I will depart to London."

Charles Brandon approached him. "What should I do, Your Majesty?"

"Leave me be," barked Henry.

The monarch walked away, feeling the pain in his right leg intensify, perhaps on the back of his collision with Elizabeth. Following the governess and the ladies, he dived into the gardens, paying no heed to the beauty of green grasses and variegated flowers, including fritillaries and primroses, as he called for his daughter. He could think of nothing but Anne and how convinced she had sounded when she had promised him that Elizabeth would succeed him as a ruler.

 _Queen Elizabeth I! The most illustrious monarch who has ever ruled England! She shall usher the country into_ _a_ _Golden Age!_

Anne must have gone mad, or she had intended to enrage him. Nonetheless, today, Henry was surprised to discover, for the first time, the peculiar combination of inner strength, bravery, and defiance in his little girl, which pushed her to counter him. Few people in his life had dared speak to him in such a demanding and fierce manner. In the moments of their confrontation, Elizabeth's face had gleamed with resilience in the laced shadows of the twilight.

 _Elizabeth did not cry, like other children would have done,_ Henry noted to himself. His princess was splendid, courageous, and wise by instinct, despite her youth. Anne and Elizabeth would forever hold the focus of his many thoughts, especially in the dead of night. Regardless of Anne's transgressions, he still viewed their child as a radiant addition to his life. He just needed to ensure that his daughter learned to live without her mother, relying only upon him and Jane.

* * *

 _ **September 11, 1536, Hatfield House, Hatfield, Hertfordshire, England** _

His countenance impatient like that of a sergeant who thinks he should be the general, King Henry grumbled, "What did you interrupt my meeting with Elizabeth, Charles?"

As they entered the study, the King of England strode to a gilded armchair, decorated with red and blue designs and studded across the top of its back with precious stones. The Duke of Suffolk nervously crossed to the king and bowed to him a bit stiffly.

The ruler seated himself, stretching his legs forward. The room, richly paneled in dark mahogany, pressed on him as though it had a descending ceiling and contracting walls. Now he would have preferred to face any peril instead of remembering his daughter's condemning eyes, as he had labored to prove to her that her mother had gone away for Elizabeth's better future.

Charles Brandon shuffled his feet, uncomfortable about the agenda. "Your Majesty, I have received important news from our ambassador to France, Sir Nicholas Wotton. Probably, you will find his letter in your regular correspondence upon our return to London."

Questions tumbled from the king's mouth, like pebbles leapfrogging over one another. "What is happening there now? Has François been defeated by Carlos V again? Have the Imperial forces vanquished all the French troops? Has France become Spain's province?"

"Nothing of that sort. King François is still at war against the House of Habsburg. And he did something that can help him gain more allies and expel the Spaniards from France."

Tipping his head back, the ruler chortled. "Fifteen thousand Frenchmen were slaughtered at Arles, and eight thousand at Tours. The emperor made his way to the heart of France. The Duchies of Auvergne, Bourbon, and Berry, as well as Provence and other southern provinces are occupied by the Imperial troops. The emperor's well-known promise is to spend a good time at François' palaces in the Loire Valley, and to celebrate his final victory at Fontainebleau."

"If this can be achieved." There was a note of doubt in Suffolk's voice.

A venomous grin worked its way across the ruler's face. "François does not have allies, as they have all deserted him. Even Scotland refused to support him, dishonoring the old Auld Alliance. No one can help him!" His grin widening, he jeered, "I support Emperor Carlos in his righteous quest for vengeance against that murderous French libertine."

"Do you really believe that King François murdered his second wife?"

The king laughed so hard that the echoes were bouncing off each other. "Of course, not. François and Carlos have long been at odds for the Duchy of Milan and Piedmont; their hatred for each other is eternal. Eleanor of Austria's death of some illness was a premise for invasion."

This was what Brandon and others assumed. "They might stop the enemy."

"I do not believe it is possible at this point."

"Your French counterpart is going to create the anti-Habsburg coalition, consisting of the Protestant countries and duchies which are part of the Holy Roman Empire. There are also rumors that the Turkish sultan, France's ally, will assist France in dealing with the Imperial forces."

Henry crossed his arms over his broad chest. "How can he do that? Who will ally with the loser who can be deprived of his throne in the matter of weeks?"

Sighing, the Duke of Suffolk assembled the courage to proceed. "King François created the Protestant symbol for this alliance. Lady Anne Boleyn–" He trailed off abruptly, hesitating, terror encompassing him. "She became the Queen of France."

A shaken Henry shot to his feet. "What?"

As Brandon repeated everything once more, the King of England commenced pacing the room to and fro. A sense of sheer unreality was the sanest reaction he could have. His emotions were churning, alternating between shock, incredulity, amazement, and even pain, to his surprise. His disbelief was stronger than it would have been if he had been told that François had broken from the Vicar of Rome and forced the whole of France to convert into Protestantism.

Over two months ago, Henry had received the news from Sir Nicholas Wotton that Anne had been granted refuge in France. He had been so furious that he had nearly destroyed his quarters in an outburst of violent rage. In a week, when his mind had cleared, he had realized that it had been an inevitable outcome: Henry himself had evicted Anne from England, so she had had nowhere to go and, hence, retired to the country where she had grown up.

After the revolt against Anne's execution, Henry had reluctantly spared her life. But he had resolved to punish her for her abominable deeds in the cruelest way: by separating her from their daughter and downgrading her to an exiled traitor. The king had taken away all that he had bestowed upon her and the Boleyns, including her estates in Pembrokeshire. Only a small pension from the state treasury had been granted to Anne so that she would not die of famine on the continent. Anne's expulsion from the English society must have been enough to make her a vagabond, hopping a horse and riding from one place to another after being shunned out.

Contrary to the recommendations of the Seymours, the Tudor monarch had not contacted the King of France to file a note of protest. He had been utterly engrossed in his new marriage to Jane. Back then, Henry had thought that the whore's arrival in France had been a blessing: she had been far away from him and Elizabeth, just as he wished, and he did not care about England's political relations with France, wishing to establish an Imperial alliance.

Perhaps his inaction had been a folly on his part. There had been persistent rumors that François would take Anne as his mistress, and Henry wondered who had spread them at his court. The mere thought that Anne could be with another man, all the more with his French archrival, caused ire of primeval potency to rush up from the depths of him, like a cauldron of boiling water. Even though he no longer loved the Boleyn harlot, as he had deluded himself into thinking after the discovery of her crimes, Henry did not want her to ever belong to anyone else.

Whatever the ruler's sentiments towards her, Anne Boleyn had been supposed to be condemned to the hell of misery and loneliness, which was as infinite and black as the moonless canvas. That whore could not be allowed to be happy! She could not marry anyone else, especially not another king! Normally, he was not interested in the personal lives of his discarded mistresses, but Anne's case was exceptional. In Henry's perverted mind, she was _his or nobody's_.

Some of his initial shock subsiding, Henry snorted, "Our ambassador must be joking. No monarch will ever marry a convicted queen of another."

His subject insisted, "It is the truth, Your Majesty."

The ruler paled to the whiteness of marble. "No, it is impossible."

"Anne Boleyn is now the consort of King François."

These words were like a powerful physical blow to Henry's heart, and even more to his pride and his inflated ego. His shock was so complete that blood froze in his veins, so he stopped in the center of the room. There was a buzzing in his ears, as if he were surrounded by a swarm of angry bees. The king opened his mouth, but his voice failed him, as if his vocal cords had been severed in some accident. He just stood like a statue, trying to process the information.

"No," tumbled from the lips of a ghostly pale Henry.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty." The duke attempted to sound apologetic.

"No," England's sovereign repeated tonelessly.

Charles Brandon braced himself against the imminent outburst of the Tudor temper. He decided against enlightening his liege lord about Anne and François' speech after the ceremony in the presence of many foreign ambassadors. That announcement had been reported by everyone to their masters, becoming a diplomatic sensation in the entirety of Christendom. In the near future, Suffolk would inform Henry about his French counterpart's promise to demand justice for Anne.

"When did it happen?" The ruler's tone was ragged with rage.

"More than three weeks ago, sire."

Wobbling, King Henry stomped to the window. Towards the horizon, the sun was sinking behind a curious crimson-tinted haze, which gave it the appearance of a dull red disk. Reflexively, he associated the sky's color with blood – Anne Boleyn's blood. A breath of wind brushed his cheeks and neck, like the stroke of a sharp sword. _I should have ordered the whore's execution, ignoring the riots in London. It would have been better if she had died in May._

"The harlot has defied me again." His voice wavered like a viol's string.

Charles inquired cautiously, "What should we do now, Your Majesty?"

The ruler was still staring at the darkening firmament. "I do not know."

Brandon said nothing more on the subject of Anne's marriage. Inwardly, he was petrified by consternation, as now Anne Boleyn wielded a great power in Europe. Without a shadow of a doubt, she and her new royal husband would move heaven and earth to prove her innocence after the end of the war against the emperor. Given his role in Anne's downfall, her vengeance could be more dangerous for him than a savage tempest that affected a densely populated area.

Pivoting at a blinding speed, Henry sprinted to the desk. With a violent movement, he cleared the table of everything: of parchments, of quills and state papers, of the sand-glass. They fell to the floor, the sand-glass clattering noisily against the side of the desk.

Looking like the enraged Minotaur, Henry roared, "Anne Boleyn is a vile adulteress who journeyed from bed to bed while I was married to her. I gave her everything, and she betrayed me with those men, who were executed before the uprising in London." His voice rose to a shriek. "She is a cheap prostitute not worthy of any man, all the more a king! She must die for her crimes!"

Charles strove to improve his liege lord's mood. "Maybe King François and his troops will be vanquished by the Imperial armies. The Valois throne can become the Habsburg one soon. Then the emperor might establish Inquisition in France and have the heretical harlot burned as a witch. Perhaps the French monarch will not avoid death either."

Henry's features twisted in abhorrence. "That would make me the most content man on earth. I would have brought a torch to the whore's pyre with my own hand."

"It would be better to wait for the outcome of the Franco-Imperial confrontation." Suffolk knew when to tread carefully, just as he must act now. Seeing that his sovereign was incensed beyond measure, he did not want England to be dragged into a costly war.

His eyes narrowing like those of a viper, Henry strode to the table, where goblets and two decanters stood. "Anne and François must both suffer!" He threw a goblet towards the door. "I want that harlot dead and buried! She must be burning in hell!"

The Duke of Suffolk put fuel into the raging fire and, by doing so, reinforced the concept of Anne's guilt. "The whore betrayed Your Majesty. You broke from Rome to wed her out of love for her, hoping that she would give England a male heir. She not only feigned her affection for you, but also failed to give you a son. Eventually, she utterly betrayed England by marrying the French king. It is a huge pity that she has not received her punishment yet."

Propelled by the tempestuous turbulence of his berserk fury, the English ruler hurled all of the goblets from the table into the opposite wall. The wine spilled onto the floor, a burgundy pool forming on the carpet. He then toppled the table to the side, screaming in helpless rage as he heard the snap of timber. It seemed that Lyssa, the ancient Greek spirit of mad fury, made him explode into a frenzied rage. Henry threw both decanters towards the door.

"I hate that blasted slut!" Henry grabbed a vase and flung it across the study. "François de Valois and Anne Boleyn will pay for what they did to me!"

Perhaps the ruler would have destroyed the whole chamber, if the door did not open in the next moment. His daughter, Elizabeth, appeared at the doorway, her gaze piercing him.

The girl asked coldly, "Your Majesty, why are you so angry with my mama?"

Henry froze near the window with a vase in his hand, his mouth agape in a bellow that did not come. The name fell from his lips. "Elizabeth…"

"Your Highness…" Charles hastened to take the vase from his liege lord.

His shock receding, the monarch approached his daughter. He stretched out his hand and took hers, but Elizabeth withdrew it. Scarcely comprehending what he was doing, Henry seized it again, struck by the icy coldness of the girl's skin. Elizabeth tried to take it away again, but he pressed it convulsively, as if it were the last effort to prevent her from escaping him.

"Have a nice evening, sire." Elizabeth curtsied to him and regally swept out of the room.

In a faint voice colored with despair, the king murmured, "I've lost her! All my reputation in her eyes has collapsed and shattered in a mere moment!"

Suffolk did not know what to say. "It will be all right, Henry."

Henry stared out the window, his entire being pulsating with poignant emotions. The shadow of the tall trees in the garden in the backdrop of the darkened sky was like nature dancing to the tune of darkness to celebrate the victory of gloom in his soul. He prayed that he would patch up his relationship with his daughter, but only a silence of denial reigned around.

* * *

 _I hope that you liked this chapter. Now we know about the King of England's family life with Queen Jane Seymour, and how they both feel in their marriage. Part of the dialogue between Henry and Jane in the first scene at the beginning of the chapter is taken from Showtimes' The Tudors._

 _Are you surprised that Henry has a mistress and wants to have a more active sexual life? Lady Anne Basset will have a unique character arc in this AU, and in many chapters (not until chapter 25 at least), she will become a very prominent character._

 _I hope you like my portrayal of Elizabeth Tudor as a precocious, strong, and extraordinary child. Even now, we can see the qualities of the great Gloriana in this little girl, who is missing her mama. Do you understand why the chapter is called "The Icy Coldness of a Hand"?_

 _The information about the Whitehall Palace is correct. Henry confiscated many of Cardinal Wolsey's palaces after the man's fall from his good graces, which attests to his greed._

 _In Greek mythology, Lyssa (also called Lytta by the Athenians) was the spirit of mad rage, frenzy, and rabies in animals._

 _Please, leave a review on this chapter. Reviews always encourage an author to update and make them happy! Thank you very much in advance._

 _I have a new poll about Charles Brandon on my profile! Please respond to it!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	7. Chapter 6: A Bellicose Spirit

**Chapter 6: A Bellicose Spirit**

 _ **September 20-21, 1536, Château de Chamerolles, near Orléans, Loire Valley, France**_

"My brave and honorable comrades," King François addressed the lines of his soldiers. His voice sounded majestic and unyielding, like that of the God Ares. "Our great country has been attacked by two Habsburg barbarians. They accused me of the murder of Queen Eleanor, my second wife, and I swear upon my eternal soul that I did not do this."

The monarch of France lapsed into silence. The picture before his eyes was monumental: he stood in the middle of the huge military camp pitched near a large Italianate castle. Everything around him was paved with human countenances tinged with reverent awe.

Located in the northern bend of the Loire River, the city of Orléans had been chosen for the central command of the French armies. François and his entourage had departed to Château de Chamerolles, which was located a short ride north-west of the city, soon after his wedding to Anne Boleyn. The Queens of France and Navarre had been left at Fontainebleau to handle the current state affairs and to communicate with the country's potential Protestant allies.

The ruler continued, "I am not Emperor Carlos and the likes of him. I would never have harmed a royal person! Eleanor died of consumption which had been draining strength out of her throughout many months." His voice rose to a crescendo of fury that was right beneath the surface. "The emperor concocted a vile story of his sister's death. He besmirched his own honor and the memory of his sweet sister. Is a good man capable of such a villainy?"

Laced with outrage, this speech produced a wild roar of implacable hatred.

"The emperor must pay for his crimes against His Majesty!"

"King François is innocent! His foes have trapped him!"

"Our great monarch is too chivalrous to stoop to the emperor's level!"

"That Spanish dog must burn in hell for attacking France!"

"Our liege lord is the Knight-King! The emperor is the devil!"

François waited until they quietened. "We have endeavored hard to defend our country." He dragged a fortifying breath, his features twisted in anguish. "All of our comrades fought courageously at Arles and Tours, but, unfortunately, those battles ended in a fiasco for us."

A funereal hush fell over the assemblage, the air vibrating with the sound of mourning dirge. The agonizing collective heartache caused tears to spring into many eyes.

"God's name…" The monarch's voice broke like a snapped string. Grasping the hilt of his sword, as if he were in the melee of combatants, he squinted around at the men, encountering the same blackness as the one governing his realm. "For that defeat, I'll forever beg the Lord for mercy upon my soul. As your king, I ask you all to forgive me as well."

The soldiers shook their heads vigorously, expressing their disagreement with him.

"Your Majesty is not guilty! We were attacked!"

"Our comrades all died heroes' deaths in those battles."

"The Habsburgs are responsible for that heinous slaughter."

"Those Spanish barbarians did not even take prisoners."

"They wanted bloodshed, so they destroyed everyone."

"France is bleeding and crying! But our king must live!"

"God bless and protect our great King François!"

His heart lightening a bit, the ruler brought one palm to his forehead. He felt the gold of the crown under his fingers, and, all of a sudden, it weighted him down, as if his kingship had cast its chains over his limbs and anchored him to the earth. But the screams of his men moved him back into the resistance mode. _I have no right to be weak now,_ he commanded himself.

"My friends!" the king shouted, the light of life reigniting in his amber eyes. "In these dark times for our nation, we all wonder whether we can make a voyage to the peaceful, prosperous future." He stilled for a split second. "I'll answer: we shall win the war!"

His uplifting speech was greeted by a burst of cheers, everyone's faces brightening.

François pointed heavenward, as if appealing to the Almighty. "Once we were defeated, but we will not drop our weapons. We are not cowards! We shall not surrender to the Imperial enemies just because they want to make us an outpost of Spain. Honor and chivalry are valued by us above all else. We will defend our magnificent heritage from the invaders."

As the monarch fell silent, the air exploded with loud shrieks of approval.

"We are not as uncivilized as the Spanish seem to be."

"The French are all true knights, just as our king is."

"We won the Hundred Years' War. We shall win this war, too."

"We love France and our culture! We shall save the nation!"

The king waved his hand for silence. "God and truth are on our side!" His ebullient voice was something more exquisite than they had ever heard, he affirmed, "We are all the children of our gracious Lord. His will cannot be the destruction of our country, because Jesus Christ wanted peace to reign supreme on earth. We want peace as well, but we have to fight for it."

His expression determined and benevolent, King François continued, "We, the French, know that Christ's teaching abrogated the old saying, ' _An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth'_. For us, clemency instead of punishment is our philosophy." His raised his voice. "We will inflict a crushing defeat on all of the Imperial forces in a fair contest, and we shall try to eschew from violence whenever we can. Let the world see whose nation is more Christian, then."

This magnanimous declaration was followed by shouts of concurrence.

The ruler veered his gaze towards the sky that was painted gold and pink by the rising sun. He then averred, "The Lord never gives His children a duty to do without giving them the means to do it, and without providing an assurance that they can cope with it."

"God bless France and King François!" the soldiers chorused.

The ruler partly echoed their words. "Gracious Lord, bless France and the French people! Help us restore the glory and honor of our great nation! Let your holy will prevail!"

The king's confident air was reinforced by his belief in his cause. "To counterbalance the Imperial power, we are now creating the anti-Habsburg alliance. Many Catholic and Protestant rulers across Europe condemned the emperor's actions in France." He punctuated the moment of importance by a short pause. "We have already signed treaties with the Schmalkaldic League and Sweden. The German Protestant States will fight alongside us against Spain."

Further improving the morale, the announcement elicited cries of delight.

Someone asked, "Was that the purpose of Your Majesty's marriage to Anne Boleyn?"

"Indeed, and that was the right decision," answered François with confidence, as if those were the words of the Creator. "You all believe in your king. Thus, I ask you to trust my judgment and to be deferential to your queen. Our success depends on the rate of our progress towards the bigger and stronger anti-Habsburg coalition. My union with the Queen Anne serves this purpose."

"What about the church?" a bold youth questioned.

The royal answer pleased everyone. "France has always been and will remain a Catholic country. Queen Anne shall work tirelessly for the benefit of the realm, and her retention of her faith is not an obstacle to our aims." Avoiding any further conversation on this sensitive subject, he moved the discourse to the end. "We all believe in the same God – Jesus Christ. We all have the same goal – to crush the enemy and to keep France as an independent country."

A sonorous roar of consensus reverberated through the air like a morning bell.

"We shall triumph over all of our enemies!"

"The Spanish will burn for their transgressions!"

"God help us save France from the invaders!"

"The truth is with us, and we shall win!"

A satisfied François grinned. Even though he would have preferred to hear his men hail both Anne and him, he realized that it was too early to expect that from them.

Smiling at his subjects cordially, the French monarch gestured towards the Marshal of France, signaling that it was high time to leave. The crowd parted to let them through, and the king strutted to the exit from the camp, followed by his councilors.

Outside, the ruler and his entourage paused on the road overlooking the river. As always, the Scots guard remained vigilant nearby to protect their sovereign.

"Where is the emperor now?" inquired François, his voice devoid of emotion.

Anne de Montmorency shared the available bits of intelligence. "Your Majesty's mortal foe has laid dormant in the past weeks. He has been seen in Sancerre, Berry, and the Loire Valley."

"It is the lull before the storm," Claude d'Annebault opined.

"I do not like their tactic," interjected Cardinal de Tournon. "He and his brother – both are spawns of the devil – must be plotting something."

"They might entrap us again," François uttered imperturbably.

"Yes," chorused his councilors. Philippe de Chabot was still not with them, for his wound was too serious, and the royal physician said that he needed several months to recover.

The king quizzed, "How many new men have you recruited?"

Montmorency's expression was enlivened with a smile. "At present, the whole nation is united against the Imperial adversary. More than twenty thousand able-bodied men have arrived only in Orléans in the past month. The Bellay brothers reported to me that they had recruited more than fifteen thousand in the north of France. These soldiers are being trained now."

"Good." The ruler's shoulders sagged in fleeting relief. "It is unclear when the Habsburg forces will launch another assault. We need more time to train our new troops. As we no longer have our southern army while our eastern forces were significantly weakened, our northern troops will not be enough to resist them. It is vitally important to postpone the final confrontation as much as we can, even though it is terrible to have the south of France occupied by the enemy."

Annebault interposed, "The Protestant allies shall send more soldiers soon. For example, Landgrave Philip of Hesse promised to give us their armies by the end of September."

François let out a wan smile. "Excellent! What about the Turks?"

Tournon said, "We are awaiting the news from our envoys."

"Let's return to the castle," instructed the king. "I must write to my sister and wife."

King François swung onto the back of the stallion, caparisoned in white damask down to the ground. He had adopted the color white as the symbol of France's victory over the invaders. His departure was accompanied by jocund strains from psaltery and blasts from the trumpets.

Surrounded by his loyal guards, the sovereign of France and his advisors galloped across the field towards the local bailiff's residence, where they were staying at the moment.

§§§

"François, François, François," a sulky female voice said like a mantra. The emerald eyes contemplated the sun's ascendance in the firmament. "I must talk to him."

An extravagant litter, draped in cloth of gold, passed through the ally of oaks and maples. It contained the infamous Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, Duchess d'Étampes, the ruler's second long-term _maîtresse-en-titre_ , and her sister, Péronne de Pisseleu. Over the litter, was borne a canopy of cloth of gold, which was ornamented at the corners with golden bells, ringing forth a convivial tune as it moved along. Each staff was carried by ten knights in Valois livery.

Murmurings arose from the camp all around. The appearance of such a grand litter, which obviously belonged to a high-ranked noble, attracted the attention of officers and soldiers.

The Duchess d'Étampes wrung her hands in agony. "When that Boleyn creature came to Fontainebleau, I should have expected that she would be dangerous."

The royal mistress had been in a foul mood since learning about the king's third marriage. The English Anne had already become her mortal enemy, her emotions spinning out of control.

Péronne sighed. "Our sovereign's new marriage does not affect your status, sister. You ought to accept Anne Boleyn as our queen and respect her at least in the king's presence."

Anne's nostrils flared, and her lips pouted. "How can I acknowledge that strumpet, who was convicted of adultery and treason, and then exiled from England, as François' wife?!"

Péronne rolled her eyes. "In rage, you have become irrational. We are both of a noble birth, but our parents come from minor seigneurs. Out of his affection for you, the king married you off to that dull man, Jean de Brosse, to elevate you to Duchess d'Étampes."

"Do not remind me of my husband. I hate him, and he loathes me."

"Aye, that he does," Péronne said flatly. "You have been a royal mistress for years. Anne Boleyn was King Henry's anointed queen. Now she is the Queen of France, while you are not."

Her sister scowled. "Why are you being so cruel to me?"

"I'm trying to reason with you. The other Anne is the king's wife, you cannot change it."

Despair mingled with fright billowed through the royal paramour. "Péronne, how can I be calm when that Boleyn slut is François' spouse? That woman, not anyone else!"

The four white palfreys, caparisoned in white damask, drew the litter into the courtyard.

Anne recalled, "François took me to Calais when he met there with King Henry."

"So, you know how this notorious woman looks like."

The duchess assessed her rival. "Though not conventionally beautiful, Anne Boleyn is an enchanting temptress. Her dark loveliness is like the red rose in the garden of the white ones. Having grown up at the French court, she is one of the most educated women in Christendom. When she glides across the room, everyone stares at her in rapture, for she is uninhibited, nicely groomed, graceful, and exotic, fascinating men as easily as one breathes."

"I do not understand where you are going with this."

The royal mistress summarized, "That Boleyn woman poses a threat to _my_ happy future with _my_ François. She is exactly the type he is attracted to."

Péronne bit her bottom lip. "Ah, I see why you are so worried, then."

The litter stopped beside the palace's rear. The two pages in white and blue satin, who escorted them together with the driver, aided the Pisseleu sisters to climb out.

As soon as her feet stepped onto the ground, Anne rushed towards the entrance to the castle, like a gust of wind. Shaking her head in disapproval, Péronne followed her sister.

The Duchess d'Étampes paused on the front steps. She had never been in this château, for the king's nomadic court hadn't come here before. With four levels and an imposing gatehouse on the east side, the castle formed a quadrilateral with a large cylindrical tower at each corner. The architectural ensemble was surrounded by moats, as if they had come to a besieged fortress.

"My François," Anne de Pisseleu whispered. "I'll help him relax."

Galvanized into action by these pleasing thoughts, she climbed the steps and ran inside. In the great hall, she stumbled into Anne de Montmorency, who furrowed his brows at her.

The duchess jeered, "Monsieur de Montmorency! You have fought so many wars that you have forgotten it is a man's duty to treat a lady with respect instead of bumping into her."

"Oh?" Montmorency arched a brow. "Where do you see a lady here? Only a whore!"

Snickering at her, the Marshal of France strode away. He despised that woman since the day she had caught his liege lord's eye, and she reciprocated his animosity. Montmorency was a devout Catholic, while the duchess was at the center of the Protestant-sympathetic faction at the French court. The differences in their religious backgrounds further intensified their hostility. He preferred Anne Boleyn to Anne de Pisseleu, despite the queen's role in the English church reform.

The duchess hissed, "One day, I'll destroy you, Monty."

In the next moment, Seigneur Gaspard de Chamerolles, who was Bailiff of Orléans and the castle owner, appeared to greet the guests. Bowing to her, he blinked in uncertainty, but as the king's mistress introduced herself in that arrogant manner of hers, he realized her importance. In a few minutes, she was lodged in one of the most luxurious apartments here.

§§§

Much to her chagrin, the Duchess d'Étampes was admitted to the King of France only at sundown. After settling in her quarters, she had barged into his rooms, but she had not found him there. Her royal lover had spent the whole day with his soldiers and Protestant ambassadors.

To fend off the dark, candles were lit in the presence chamber. During the monarch's stay at the château, the previously dull appearance of the room was made stunning, the walls being hung with arras which represented the life of the legendary Charlemagne. The massive carved throne stood in the center upon a carpet, emblazoned with the face of the Goddess Athena.

"Anne," beckoned the French monarch.

Holding her head high, Anne de Pisseleu crossed to the king's throne, her posture elegant and tinged with innate sensuality. Her gait was slow and measured, like that of royalty.

François watched his mistress sink into a deep curtsey, her graceful movements like those of an adroit feline. _Anne Boleyn's curtsey is more enchanting than Anne de Pisseleu's, although they both have exquisitely refined manners._ In the twinkling of an eye, the dart of perplexity hit him as he wondered why he compared these two women.

To her surprise, her lover did not stand up from the throne to hug her. "Rise, Madame. Such a lovely lady should not be at the feet of a man, even if he is a king."

Straightening, the duchess scrutinized him. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his pallor accentuated the lack of buoyancy which usually characterized François. Today, his simple attire was a blending of pastel shades: mauve brocade doublet slashed with lavender silk from top to the bottom of sleeves, hose of the same fabric, and toque of mauve velvet ornamented with gems.

"Your Majesty looks tired," she observed.

His sigh seemed heavier than the load of all his burdens. "I've been extremely busy as of late. Life will become more troublesome as the emperor's troops are nearing Orléans."

Anne de Pisseleu was genuinely worried about the monarch and, of course, about France's future. Like all the French, she hated the Habsburgs with every fibre of her being. She wished François to triumph over all of his foes so that the ruler could make the grand entrée into Paris with her at his side. Visions of how they together would ride on white horses to the Palais de Louvre amid flourishes of trumpets and acclamations whirled in her head, like a heady wind.

Most of all, the duchess craved being the only woman in François' life who would share the future grandiose victory with him. However, her lover had wed another woman to win the confrontation with Spain, so she now was a prey to the persistent alarm. The mistress dreamed of merrymaking and feasting at the extravagant French court, of sleeping in the king's strong arms after their fervid lovemaking, bacchic just as that of the God Dionysus and his wife, Ariadne.

 _François is the best and most handsome man I've ever been with,_ the Pisseleu harlot mused. She would ardently have accepted him into her sheath right now. Unbeknownst to him, she had several more lovers, one of them being his favored advisor. Yet, François occupied a special spot in her fickle heart: she fancied herself in love with him. She was haughtily proud of her own alluring charms which had produced such a salacious effect upon him.

Anne's countenance transformed into concern. "If only I could assist you, François!"

He stretched his long legs further out. "Why have you come here?"

"I've missed you so much," she breathed.

"I see." It puzzled him that he had spared her little thought in the past months.

At his dry response, her temper spiraled high – a miscalculation on her part. "Why did you marry that woman without asking my opinion on the matter?"

For a handful of heartbeats, King François contemplated his paramour in annoyance. The willing amorous nymph, who usually elated his mood like few other things could, had vanished to leave in her wake this sharp-tongued and presumptuous virago. Whatever remnants of his famed chivalry and courtesy he might have felt disappeared after what she had just said.

His arctic gaze pierced her to the core. "Am I the King of France or your subject?"

The intemperate and spoiled Anne de Pisseleu met his challenge head on. "François, we have long become almost husband and wife. But you wed that witch, who slept with your rival."

The slur against his wife angered him. "Madame d'Étampes, do I have to teach you a hard lesson to make you respect my decisions and Queen Anne of France?"

She burst out, "François, _mon amour!_ This woman is using you! She bewitched you into marrying you, because she yearned to be a queen again!"

A man of mellow temper, François was now enraged. "How dare you slander my wife? Like others, you must understand that Anne Boleyn is innocent of all the charges leveled against her." He stilled for a moment before saying acidly, "My queen is a more decent woman than you have ever been. _At least, she has been only with her two husbands – Henry and me._ You were not a virgin when I took you to bed on your seventeenth birthday."

Anne de Pisseleu realized that she had crossed a line. "I'm sorry, François."

He shifted in his seat. "You should not have said those things."

"I'm sorry," she reiterated. "I fear to lose you, my king."

The ruler ordered, "Anne de Valois – this is her name now – is my queen, and I shall not repudiate her. You must always pay her all the honors befitting her highest station."

The Duchess d'Étampes swallowed a lump. "I understand, Your Majesty."

 _I've never seen this side to her before,_ the king remarked. At the present moment, Anne de Pisseleu was not that young, intelligent, and sweet woman who had captivated him years ago. Her continuous attempts to manipulate him had long commenced grating on his nerves. Now the capricious and no-holds-barred facets of her character were revealed to him.

Finally, François stood up. If there were not so much discomfiture on his part, he might have questioned her acceptance of his instructions. "This time, you are forgiven."

Schooling her features into devilish sweetness, Anne de Pisseleu closed the gap between them. Tears shining in her eyes, she embraced him and put her head onto his chest. As he had never been able to watch a woman cry, François closed his arms around her waist.

She whispered, "You sent me away from court to wed her. Why did you act so callously?"

Immediately, he extricated himself from her grasp. "Predicting your reaction in advance, I strove to avoid a quarrel with you. Moreover, I've been too focused on the formation of the anti-Habsburg alliance since my sister suggested this great idea to me."

The duchess disliked the king's sister a lot, although they both were interested in new religious teachings. "So, Queen Marguerite arranged this marriage for you."

"Sort of." He stepped aside, as if wishing to put a distance between them.

"May I stay with you, my beloved sovereign?"

"I would prefer that you leave. But if your mind is firm, you can be here."

"It is!" Anne flashed a provocative smile. "My François! _Mon amour_!"

François walked over to an oak cabinet at the far end of the room, leaning against it.

He viewed his paramour from top to toe. A tall, slender woman of fair complexion, her gaze now shining with untrammeled desire for him, Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly exuded a powerful blend of feminity and sensuality. Her classically beautiful features were so perfect, her alabaster skin so smooth and glowing, her breasts, stressed by her indecent décolletage, so ample, and the aura of the Goddess Venus, which radiated from her, transformed her into a vision, a dream too enchanting to last. Her emerald eyes gleamed with the sultry promise of carnal pleasures.

Anne's magnificent gown of crimson brocade, worked with gold, had a low, square-cut neckline and long, open, pendent sleeves. Her stomacher of white velvet, twisted with threads of Venetian gold, glittered with rubies, sapphires, topazes, and emeralds. Her glossy, blonde hair cascaded down her back from beneath a headdress of goldsmith's work, which was encrusted with rubies and diamonds. From her neck, dangled a necklace of oval-cut and massive diamonds, which was part of the Crown Jewels and which she wore with his permission.

The Duchess d'Étampes was one of the most fabulous women in France. Being talented in the art of physical love, she had held the amorous monarch captive for years. Neglecting his unwanted wife, Eleanor of Austria, François had let his _maîtresse-en-titre_ wield such power that no royal courtesan possessed in Europe, although she failed to manipulate him in most cases.

She effused, "I love you so much, François!"

"That remains to be seen," he teased, his smile listless.

Anne de Pisseleu impetuously darted to François and tiptoed, snaking her arms around his neck. Her hand raking through his chestnut locks, she sealed her mouth to his.

The Pisseleu's erotic conjurations roused all of the monarch's sensual rapacity. François pushed her back to a table, and the duchess obeyed him like a slave, at the same time experiencing a devilish satisfaction at this testimony to her superior power over his male needs. He reached down and shoved her skirts up to her waist, hastily removing her undergarments. Her expert hands were so dexterous that Anne finished unlacing his hose within several blinks of an eye.

Now François typified the god Pan, the master of the wild fields, groves, and glens, who was depicted by the Greeks with an erect phallus. She arched her hips towards him and let a moan rumble in her throat, spreading her legs wide and inviting him in. With a lascivious smirk, Anne beckoned him to herself, and he embedded himself into her in one hard, forceful thrust. He drove into her over and over again, building a furious rhythm of plunder and somehow ending up pressed against the wall. Every time she tightened her sheath around his shaft, the king moaned, and she laughed like the Roman Messalina giving herself to one of her countless lovers.

An utterly aroused Anne crushed her lips into his. For a while, their bodies wriggled and writhed in a mechanical, vehement rite, almost grotesque for old lovers such as themselves. The prurient rhythms of the ruler's pulsating flesh demanded that he deliver his harlot to the Pan's homeland in rustic Arcadia so that they could celebrate the culmination in an unspoiled wilderness. Gulping breaths and groaning, he swelled even more, throbbing and burning until he thrust long and deep into her before they both dissolved in an ocean of unalloyed carnal bliss.

His mistress nested her head against his chest. "François …"

Opening his eyes and encountering two emerald caverns, the king frowned as he beheld the marshy swampland with stagnant water. His entire personal life stretched in front of him, barren of love and full of numerous lusts, which he was clinging to with ferocity for years.

 _I've been slogging through the green swampland of Anne de Pisseleu's eyes for so long,_ _the ground where she steps sucking at my feet,_ François realized. Physical aroma wafted from this smart and wanton creature, tying his body to hers, though not to his soul. For so long, their feverish lovemaking had usually been followed by intellectual discourses and many merry days in a row, but today the moments after their coupling were sour-mouthed and nauseated him.

A mangled groan erupted out of his throat. "We should not have done that."

Her eyes widened fractionally. "Why?" Her lips curled in a grin. "I only regret that you didn't take me in natural settings, in a cave or a grotto, just as Pan slept with nymphs."

Pushing her back, he adjusted his hose. "I wish to be alone."

She rearranged her skirts. "But I crave to be with you again!"

Lust had evaporated from his loins. "Do not annoy me, Anne. I've always been kind to you. But if you ever disparage my wife again, you will lose my favor."

The Duchess d'Étampes retorted meekly, "I'll do what you want. That I promise you."

The amber eyes turned affable. "Go to your apartments. We will talk later."

"As Your Majesty commands." Bobbing a curtsey, she backed away to the exit.

After she had vacated the room, François was conscious of guilt at the thought of hurting his mistress. Relationships were rarely unselfish, so he had not evicted Anne de Pisseleu for her lapse of manners. His life would evolve into a dry, desolate desert without ladies, while his English spouse would probably never become his secret oasis. Part of him still hoped that the duchess could become his cool waterfall, but this illusion was swiftly dissipating, like mist in summer.

These feelings were superseded by a surge of contrition that he had copulated with Anne de Pisseleu. An axe of guilt stabbed François in the stomach: he had just broken his marital vows, smearing his marriage to Anne Boleyn with the grime of his infidelity. That was a new sensation for him: throughout his matrimonial life with Eleanor of Austria and even with the almost ideal Claude of France, he had committed adulteries without compunction, sometimes in a scandalous manner. _Anne, my wife…. Forgive me for what I've just committed,_ the puzzled king mused.

§§§

François de Valois was awoken by the sounds of loud screams and the hurried march of footsteps in the corridor. Apparently, a frenzied commotion was escalating outside.

"Again the Habsburgs?" His mind raced in the cool way, like a commander's.

Pushing aside the silk sheets, the monarch scrambled out of bed, and made his way to the window. The firmament was brightening in the east, heralding dawn. The courtyard was swarmed with dark forms, moving stealthily towards others, whirling in the internecine dance of mortality. Even from his bedchamber, he could hear the muffled cries of the wounded and dying.

The door flung open, and Anne de Montmorency rushed in. "We are under attack!"

A thoughtful François swiveled to face him. "They planned it beforehand."

"Your Majesty, you must sneak out of the palace!"

"Never!" The ruler struggled into his garments in haste. "We fled from Arles because the situation was critical. But here we will make our last stand here, if necessary."

His subject would not persuade him otherwise. "I'll protect you, then."

"My burgonet!" demanded the king. "It originally belonged to my father."

His groom delivered the crowned burgonet studded with carbuncles and King François' emblem – a salamander. Years ago, it had been commissioned by the monarch's father – Charles d'Orléans, Count d'Angoulême – for his participation in the Italian war led by Louis XII of France.

François donned the helmet. "If they want to kill the king, they can easily find me."

"Oh, Your Majesty…" Montmorency heaved a sigh. His sovereign's foolhardiness was both admirable and reckless, so his generals were always on high alert to keep him alive.

The ruler drew on his gauntlets. "Fortune favors the brave."

In a few minutes, the monarch and his subject strode through the hallways.

Clad in his fancy golden armor, King François embodied the most extravagant Christian knight. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, which was studded with rubies and the salamander. A poniard hung at his waist, the scabbard encrusted with the salamander as well.

In the great hall, Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly ran towards her royal lover. "Your Majesty, are you all right? What should I do? How can I aid you?"

He stopped beside her. "Anne, return to your rooms. If the situation worsens, we will evacuate you." Then he and Montmorency spun on their heels and exited.

Outside, a bloody gale blew the ruler and the marshal into the scrimmage.

Pulling his sword, François exhorted, "Crush the Imperial ruffians in the name of God!"

His cry was repeated by all the French, encountering their opponents in the lethal cascade of steel and bone. Exacerbated by their recent losses, their temper broke the grip of their traditional chivalry, paving the way to the fiendish mutilation of their adversaries. Bloodlust seized them like the claws of a ravening beast, torrents of crimson liquid fire gushing everywhere around.

The king charged into battle like a warrior possessed by a bellicose spirit. Wielding his sword in one hand and brandishing his poniard in the other, he dissolved into the bleeding and screaming chaos. The insane abhorrence towards the emperor, the hatred towards the Spaniards, and the doom they could face tonight – everything fused in the heat of his righteous wrath. The ruler cut the threads of countless lives, his weapon arcing in dark, sweeping blows.

"To the gate!" Claude d'Annebault bellowed as he stabbed a Spaniard in the torso. "All arms to the gate!" He spun around like a whirl, blocking and parrying.

"Repel the invaders!" The monarch's poniard bisected someone's abdomen.

The monarch's voice rang out loud and clear across the courtyard. More warriors, some still sleepy, stormed out of the château and nearby buildings, drawing their weapons and strapping on armor. The battle raged ferociously, and the French artillery was firing incessantly.

Above the human mass, the canvas exploded with hues of scarlet and gold. The rising sun transformed into an oriflamme of indescribable, yet lethal, gorgeousness that presaged ruin.

The Valois king morphed into an incensed Zeus battling against the Titans for the Mount Olympus. "Send someone to the camp! We need our men's aid!"

"Done, my liege!" Staying in his sovereign's close vicinity, Cardinal de Tournon skewed the man, who labored to slain François, through the side. "They must appear soon."

Someone shouted in Spanish, "The King of France! Kill him!"

François howled with laughter, as though it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. "My Imperial friends, take me alive or murder me, if you can!" He slashed in a horizontal cut.

"Protect His Majesty!" Montmorency's blade pierced his rival's heart.

Gifting a fatal blow to his opponent, Annebault paused for a fraction of a second, as he eyed the carnage. "Those fucking Habsburgs have performed a sneak attack at night."

"For France!" The ruler's sword was carving its bloody path.

The warriors repeated his rallying cry, "For France!"

Led by Annebault, a French squad took the battlements. Corpses, some of them smashed beyond recognition, spread around like a crimson carpet, oozing with the mingled blood of the dead and wounded. At Montmorency's command, a train of artillery fired at the enemy again.

"That man!" yelled a Spanish knight who was dangerously close to the king. "He wears the burgonet with salamanders! He is King François! Destroy that Valois dog!"

"Die, you scoundrel." Anne de Montmorency impaled the instigator.

The universe narrowed to two goals: to defend the king and to overpower the attackers. The gates were unexpectedly opened by an attack, as more of the Imperial men pressed the French into the courtyard, only to have a division of shield-bearing French warriors crash into them.

Montmorency apprised, "Our men from the camp have arrived!"

The French troops were finally here, pouring into the courtyard in a torrent. The two parties came close together, then retreated and engaged again, their swords colliding and scraping together with the violence of their mutual aversion. The Spaniards could not withstand the onslaught of the French, who were in the better condition compared to their opponents.

The King of France fought at the heart of the conflict. "We are winning!"

The sun's glow illuminated the towers of the castle as the French welcomed the daylight and victory. Suddenly, warriors, bearing the standard of Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse known as the Magnanimous, entered through the gate. Among them there was a lady, wearing beautiful shining armor inlaid with silver filigree, her figure shining like a beacon of truth. Next to her, stood a slender knight of average height with manacled hands, the visor of his armet flipped down.

Sizzling heat rushing up through his essence, François froze as his opponent tumbled to the ground. "Anne," he whispered, his lips stretching in a grin. "Anne!"

Someone announced, "Queen Anne has brought the German forces!"

Veering his gaze to his marshal, François urged, "Monty, safeguard my wife."

His friend nodded. "I shall! Just be careful, my liege."

Silhouetted against the red halo of dawn, the queen and Montmorency huddled together. He defended her from all perils, as the French and German knights charged at the Imperial men.

Soon most of the invaders had been vanquished. Those who remained alive were goaded into the ferocious resistance in the face of their impending doom. At the sight of the prisoner who stood beside Anne, the Spanish soldiers raced through the melee towards him, as if saving him was the matter of life and death. However, they were encased in a thunderous cascade of artillery and musketry fire, waves of their pitiful moans rolling over the area.

As cannonades proclaimed the French triumph, the fighting died out. For a skirmish, the carnage was so unthinkable that the battlefield looked like some scene on a tapestry of Crusades.

Sheathing his weapons, King François approached his wife and removed his burgonet. In a voice dripping in amazement, he enquired, "Although it is amusing to see you in armor, Anne, I wonder what you are doing here. You must be with my sister at Fontainebleau."

Her countenance expressing her haughty pride, Anne answered, "Your Majesty should not be angry at the two women who have done everything in their power to help you." Gesturing towards the unknown warrior, she proclaimed, "This is His Majesty Ferdinand von Habsburg, Archduke of Austria and King of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia."

The amber eyes widened. "What?"

Montmorency sniggered. "At first, I could not believe that, but it is true."

Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse, bowed to the ruler of France, who swept a bow in response. François was startled to see the key leader of the Schmalkaldic League in front of him.

"Your Majesty," Philip addressed the Valois monarch. He spoke in French, his accent heavy. "I've led my army from Hesse and my other lands to assist you in punishing the Spanish Catholic invaders. When we arrived at Fontainebleau, your sister, the esteemed Queen of Navarre, offered us to join you near Orléans. Your queen accompanied us on the way here."

"Thank you." Pointing at the prisoner, the king asked, "How did you catch him?"

Anne surveyed her husband, unaccustomed to seeing him encumbered with armor. François winked at her, conveying that it was unusual to see such a belligerent lady.

The queen explained, "The emperor's brother perpetrated the attack on the castle. When his plan was foiled, he attempted to escape, but we intercepted him in the central alley leading to the château."

"I know him well." The Landgrave of Hesse gestured towards the captive.

François stepped to his mortal foe's younger brother. Switching into accented Spanish, he pronounced, "Your Majesty, welcome to France! You must feel that your dignity has been compromised because you are now standing in front of us – your enemies. However, it is your fault, and you must also blame Carlos for your current predicament. As your stay in our country will be a long one, you will have the chance to learn the famous French etiquette and courtesy."

After a moment's dithering, Ferdinand flicked up his visor to reveal pale blue eyes full of impotent fury and scorn. "I yield," he ground out in Spanish.

"Take him away," ordered François. "Treat him with the respect befitting his station."

After the notable prisoner had been led away, the king stared into two dark pools. _Anne… How natural it is to call her my wife… She has arrived like a general on the parade_. He was used to desire women, but his stirring emotions towards his spouse had an exotic quality, as if looking at her was the piquant experience of seeing a rare treasure from the Orient. François wondered what future held for him and his new spouse who had quite a strange effect on him.

§§§

Montmorency escorted King Ferdinand, guarded by fifteen knights, to quarters in one of the château's towers. Montmorency opened the door, letting the prisoner enter, and followed him. Then the lock clicked as the door was closed, and ten sentinels stood outside the rooms.

"Your Majesty," began Montmorency in highly accented Spanish. "I hope that you will find everything to your convenience. If you want something, you just need to ask."

Ferdinand took off his helmet. As he tossed his brown-haired head, a few locks fell onto his eyes, and he tucked his hair behind his ears. He answered in accented, yet flawless, French in a jeering manner, "How very generous of you, Monsieur de Montmorency, I suppose?"

Montmorency scrutinized the prisoner with interest. Although he had met Carlos V during François' Italian campaigns and their Spanish captivity, he had never seen Ferdinand before. The emperor's younger brother remained in the shadow of Carlos. Nevertheless, Ferdinand was an important European monarch, being Carlos' closest ally, King of the Romans, and governor of the Austrian lands in his brother's name, as well as King of Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary.

 _I wonder how much Ferdinand resembles his grandfather,_ Montmorency mused as he held the captive's penetrative gaze. _This man shares his customs, culture, name, and even his birthday with Ferdinand of Aragon._ Although his expression was combative at this moment, the prisoner was a handsome and still young man, tall and athletic, though shorter than François. Ferdinand's swarthy complexion, set off by pale blue eyes, somewhat reminded the Valois dour one.

Ferdinand guessed, "Trying to understand how similar I am to my illustrious grandfather?"

Montmorency hid his surprise at the guest's astuteness with a sour smile. "Your Bohemian and Hungarian Majesty speaks our language rather well. You will have a lot of time to improve your French, perhaps even get rid of that unpleasant Spanish accent."

Ferdinand added arrogantly, "You should have said 'Your Croatian Majesty' too."

"Ah, I beg your pardon." Montmorency sketched a mocking bow. "Of course."

"Contact the emperor," Ferdinand advised in a demanding tone. "My brother will pay any ransom for me." There was not a shadow of a doubt in his voice.

"I would not be so sure of the emperor's generosity. You overestimate it."

The King of Hungary claimed, "Carlos will have me freed. He will defeat you."

This wiped out Montmorency's neutral demeanor. "You will all be expelled, just as those wretched Englishmen were over a century ago. That demon Carlos will be crushed."

Ferdinand insisted, "Carlos is a great military commander."

Montmorency narrowed his eyes. "Your Majesty will rot in France for long, perhaps for the rest of your life. But you will be treated well. We are not barbarians like Spaniards."

"You are all frivolous satyrs playing the most cultured court in Europe." Ferdinand was interested in French culture, but his animosity towards his adversaries spoke for him.

Montmorency spat, "One day, you might regret your fealty to your brother."

Ferdinand's eyes flashed. "Carlos will triumph over you, and you will regret your words. We are from the Houses of Trastámara and Habsburg – we don't bow to anyone."

"The Valois do not blow to anyone either," fired the French marshal. His eyes traversed the prisoner's form. "You will be given necessary garments, rich but designed in French fashions."

Casting an uncharitable glance at him, Montmorency bowed and exited. The lock clacked as the door was shut, and the footsteps outside signaled that the sentries took their positions before the chamber. The King of France's order was to guard Ferdinand with impeccable strictness.

"Damn!" roared Ferdinand in Spanish, a wave of helpless rage slashing through him.

Ferdinand examined his surroundings. A stone fireplace took up a large portion of one wall. Flemish tapestries, depicting landscapes of Brussels familiar to him, adorned the walls. Luxurious carpets in jeweled tones of sapphire and burgundy covered the polished wooden floor. Pieces of furniture, elegant in rich woods and green silks, were scattered haphazardly about the room. In the distant corner, a large bed with the headboard carved with the Valois heraldry stood.

"Damn," repeated Ferdinand, this time in German. He spoke many languages.

He crossed to a window. Ferdinand threw the shutters open and looked out into the darkness. He was confined to the highest tower room so that he could not try to escape.

Ferdinand dragged an agonizing breath, his mind racing. Carlos, whose camp was not far from this place, had sent his brother with several thousand men on this mission – to make an assault on the château where the King of France resided and capture _'that Valois miscreant and parvenu'_ , as Carlos called his nemesis. The Habsburg siblings had thought that they would catch the French unawares, which would let them emerge victorious quickly, but they had been mistaken.

 _I've always been loyal to Carlos_ , Ferdinand thought. _I've never disobeyed him. My brother will swiftly lead his armies to Chamerolles and have me liberated._ Yet, the ease with which the French had defeated the small Imperial army astonished Ferdinand. The Habsburg brothers had won the Battles of Arles and of Tours without great difficulty, but the French had just not been prepared for the invasion. At present, the adversary seemed to be stronger and fiercer.

Truth be told, the emperor's brother had not been fond of the idea to invade France from the very beginning. Part of Ferdinand had doubted their success, given the results of One Hundred Years' War, and this feeling was gnawing at him. He had voiced his opinion, but the emperor was adamant about subjugating France and the House of Valois. Ferdinand had had to comply.

Extreme fatigue was taking its toll on him, tinged with anger with himself and even Carlos for his capture. An overwrought Ferdinand walked over to a chair and tumbled into it. He put his helmet on the floor and discarded his armor, remaining only in his leather vest, shirt, and hose. His sword and dagger had already been taken from him by Montmorency's men.

 _Cousin Ferdinand, please try to convince Carlos against invading France. This ill-fated adventure might result in nothing good for Spain and the Habsburg domains. There are important lessons from history that Carlos is not taking into account: has anyone ever been able to conquer France? The Valois realm is economically powerful, and the French treasure their freedom._

The words of Empress Isabella, his brother's wife, rang in Ferdinand's head, overpowering in their colossal force. Isabella, who had always supported her beloved Carlos in all his endeavors, had objected to their escapades in France. Yet, even she, who had a considerable influence over Carlos, failed to curb his lust for power and his hatred for France. Although Ferdinand had seen Isabella only several times as he lived in Austria since the 1520s, they frequently corresponded.

"Perhaps Isabella was right," muttered Ferdinand, wiping sweat from his forehead.

 _Tonight I met King François and Queen Anne,_ he recalled with amazement _._ Grudgingly, the prisoner admitted that the Valois ruler's prowess with weapons had impressed him, and so had done the enemy queen's bravery. Most of all, now Ferdinand dreamed of going back to Vienna and Prague where his wife, Anna of Bohemia, lived with their many children. He also prayed that the Turks had not taken advantage of his absence and had not attacked his lands.

* * *

 _I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave a review and let me know what you think!_

 _Now we know what François is doing to counter the Imperial aggression, although he is not going to do this with an equal aggression of his own, as he said to his men. In this AU, François is not portrayed as an ideal king and man, but his chivalrous nature will be fully revealed in later chapters. Do not forget that he was called the Knight-King due to his personal participation in battles and due to the code of chivalry, which he accepted for himself and which he extolled throughout his life._

 _Just as I warned you, the Valois monarch is not planning to discard his mistresses any time soon, and in this chapter, Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly made her first appearance. As you can deduce, she is not happy with her royal lover's wedding to Anne Boleyn, whom she considers her rival and enemy. It is easy to notice that François is tied to her mostly by the bonds of physical lust._

 _In ancient Greek mythology, Pan is the god of the wild, shepherds, and flocks, nature of mountain wilds, rustic music, and impromptus, as well as companion of the nymphs. The worship of Pan began in Arcadia which was always the principal seat of his worship; Arcadia was a district of mountain people, culturally separated from other ancient Greeks._

 _The information about Château de Chamerolles is historically correct. In history, Seigneur Gaspard de Chamerolles was indeed Bailiff of Orléans and the castle owner._

 _Burgonet was a close-fitting 16th century helmet with cheek guards; it was the successor of the sallet. Armet was a late and perfected medieval helmet of many light parts closing neatly round the head by means of hinges following the contour of chin and neck. Armet was extensively used in Italy, France, England, the Low Countries and Spain, while burgonet was mostly used in France._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	8. Chapter 7: On the Brink of Changes

**Chapter 7: On the Brink of Changes**

 _ **October 5, 1536, Château de Chamerolles, near Orléans, Loire Valley, France**_

"Your dearest Majesty," began Anne de Pisseleu. "I've come to greet you in person."

The Duchess d'Étampes curtsied to her lover's wife, endeavoring to move as gracefully as she could. It was as if she intended to compete with the famous elegance and style of Anne Boleyn. As the royal paramour rose, the emerald pools of faux sweetness encountered the ever-penetrating dark gaze which pierced her to the core, like a scorching ray of sun.

The antechamber was lit by candles, but not a single shadow faltered or hue flickered. Anne Boleyn waved her hand, dismissing a lady to stay alone with her guest.

Her gaze traversing the visitor, Queen Anne of France bestowed a smile upon her. Her husband's _maîtresse-en-tire_ possessed the flamboyant and lascivious beauty of the mythological goddess of beauty and desire. It was no wonder that Anne de Piselleu d'Heilly had won the contest for the place in the royal bed with the older Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, and become the ruler's chief mistress. The Valois monarch compared his most favored paramour's body to that of Venus, which was a true testimony to her perfectly formed figure.

 _The genius Michelangelo could not have sculptured a finer statue,_ the queen concluded. _I've never lacked for admirers, but this woman is more beautiful than me._ Her mind conjured appalling pictures: Anne de Pisseleu peeling off her night robe so that her sexual allure could shine everywhere in blinding attraction, and King François kissing her possessively while grounding his hips into her in slow, erotic circles. For some peculiar reason, this made the queen angry.

The royal wife grinned. "I hope, with good intentions, Madame."

"Yes, of course," answered the king's courtesan with an artificial smile. "I'm honored to be here and meet with the sheer legend of Christendom. Your persona has long become the symbol of feminine grace, topnotch intelligence, amorous feats, and religious novelties."

"And so has your name," the Queen of France pointed out.

Bewildered, the mistress said in a lowered tone, "What?"

Her voice as silken as the finest velvet, the ruler's spouse said, "Most definitely, Madame la Duchesse. You have kept the monarch of France's interest for so long that it deserves profound admiration and praise." Stilling for a moment, she regarded the courtesan. "The gallants of the French court say that you are _'the most beautiful among the learned and the most learned among the beautiful'_. They are right, for you are a prime example of loveliness and intelligence."

Anne de Pisseleu was flattered, but she surmised that the queen was testing her. "Your Majesty is most kind to me. However, my personal virtues are naught compared to yours."

Anne Boleyn seated herself in a chair. "You are belittling yourself."

The duchess raised her chin defiantly as she quoted one of the king's poems in her honor.

 _A flush, a glow on the morning skies,_

 _Earth smiles in her happy awakening;_

 _Whispers the wind, "Arise now, the Knight-King!_

 _Your Venus is waiting for you, right next to you!"_

 _The dawn of our passion is beaming again."_

 _And his affectionate eyes look on her form,_

 _And their faces shimmer like the sunny brook,_

 _He flashes a smile that has conquered many hearts_

 _But that is only for his Venus and her heart._

 _The goddess tells her king: "I love you!_

 _You are my dawn that comes every new day!_

 _Your voice is only for me in this sweet time,_

 _We are bathing in resplendent joy together."_

 _Together we watch the gorgeous sunrise,_

 _And the songs of our lives ring gaily out there_

 _The eternal spring of our passion is here!_

Anne de Pisseleu was so engrossed in the verse that a strong rush of desire went through her. "This lovely poem illustrates how deeply His Majesty feels for me."

"It is interesting that the king speaks about your passion, but not his love for you."

The royal harlot boasted, "François wrote this poem to me while we were in bed."

The queen's smirk turned into a painful twist of lips. "His feelings for you are a primitive carnal passion? Men are lustful creatures who chase after nymphs because of their beauty."

"Love and passion!" the duchess objected.

The queen was astounded with the duchess' frankness. She knew that François composed poems to some of his paramours either to seduce them or to paint his continuing affairs with the hues of romance. Endowed by nature with the most remarkable gifts of body and mind, the ruler had acted in the same manner during his seduction of Mary Boleyn, who had easily fallen victim to his unparalleled allure. Despite having been a girl back then, Anne had seen the king's poems for Mary, and she remembered how her sister had 'ahed and ohed' while reading them.

These memories unsettled Queen Anne. "Over the course of time, countless women have willingly surrendered to King François' expert charms. My sister was once like liquid in his arms, only to be later cruelly defamed by him. His escapades dubbed him a notorious heartbreaker."

The mistress led her vanguard against her rival. "François has been with many women, and I'm aware that he has other mistresses. At the same time, he loves me so wholeheartedly and endlessly that he would do anything for me. His love for me is a gift he gives daily, expecting nothing in return. He walks at my side, as the light from me is a torch to guide him along the path of heavenly delight. I own the king's heart, and nothing will ever change that."

"Do you fear that I can alter it?" asked the queen, her eyebrow arched.

Taken aback, Anne de Pisseleu didn't reply straight away. All-pervading fright gripped her in its pitiless hands. It was exactly what she was afraid of since she had learned about François' wedding. One glance into the mysterious, dark hooks of the Boleyn temptress, which were more haunting than visions of paradise for a sinner, was enough to enslave a man. _I shall not let that woman take my François away from me. Woe betide her if she tries to make him fall in love with her, just as she did to the English ruler._ Such were the duchess' unsavory musings.

The mistress' face was uncertain. "What do you mean?"

Mirth flashed in the eyes which turned opaque. "You think that I'll ensnare King François like my first husband. A flicker of fear in your eyes and the rigidity of your frame prove this."

The royal courtesan let her breath out in a sigh. "With all due respect, you are mistaken."

With a philosophical air about her, Anne Boleyn pontificated, "Every woman is looking for that blessed hope and glorious love she can read about in chivalrous romances. With joyful longing, she waits for her gallant knight to court her, to confess to loving her, to marry her, and then to make her the happiest woman on earth. She entreats the Lord to grant her a content and life-long marriage, yearning to become her beloved's devoted, faithful wife."

Confusion filled the emerald eyes. "I do not understand."

With paralyzing sagacity, the royal spouse commented, "Once I was such a woman. I was drawn to the King of England like a moth to a flame – and I was burned. However, you have never wanted any man out of pure love, for you do not know what true love is."

The duchess' temper flared. "Your Majesty does not know me!"

The queen assessed the other woman's character. "I can see through you. Your capacity for mischief in affairs arouses passion in the hearts and loins of men. You are proud of your enormous skill in ridding married women of their husbands. For many men, the very prospect of catching your glance at them is like a rare dream." A smirk puckered her mouth. "Over time, your ordinary life widened to the royal universe, where you became the king's powerful _maîtresse-en-titre_. Your sovereign indulges you beyond measure, and you believe that being with him is the supreme purpose for which you were born. Is that not true, Madame d'Étampes?"

The courtesan was totally abashed. "François and I are–"

Queen Anne interrupted, "At some point in time, a lover – whether he is a king or not – realizes the truth about his mistress, even if now he adores her. Inevitably, reality will intervene, and in this case, her talent in amours will become worthless, like a mirage in the desert. Everything has its beginning and its end, and the end of any liaison occurs as soon as the lover grasps the dismal truth." Tittering, she concluded, "These thoughts have long started nagging you."

Her cheeks purpling, Anne de Pisseleu throttled her rage. For once, her intuition had been at fault before this meeting. She had initially believed that she would assure Anne Boleyn of the total security of her relationship with the French ruler. But she had underestimated the dratted woman, whom she refused to call a queen in her mind. Not only had the king's new wife defeated the duchess in their philosophical, yet acrid, discourse, but also had backed her into a corner.

"That is not true," lied the ruler's chief mistress, her voice laced with steel. "Our mutual love with François has been blessed by the Almighty. Nothing could be better than that."

"I'm glad His Majesty has such an ardent lover, but for a different reason."

Truth be told, the queen regretted that the duchess had proclaimed herself Anne's enemy. At the beginning of their conversation, she had been inclined, in her genuine sincerity, to inform the king's paramour that she had no part in her own spouse's life, and that the other woman had nothing to fear. However, Anne de Pisseleu's arrogance was so overwhelming and overweening that the queen was determined to put the harlot in her place, no matter what.

In France, Anne Boleyn could discuss her erstwhile life only with Queen Marguerite of Navarre, so she felt lonely, as if stranded on a barren island. Her only comfort was memories of her dearest daughter, Elizabeth – her sacred mental abode from troubles, yet she feared to dwell on them for too long for long to avoid hurting herself even more. _I'm all alone and need allies, not foes. But now I've a new dangerous adversary, so I must watch my back._

"You are dismissed, Madame," stated Queen Anne with arctic chilliness.

Gritting her teeth, the Duchess d'Étampes swallowed her ire. "I bid you a good day, Your Majesty." She compelled herself to curtsey, spun on her heels, and stormed out.

§§§

As the door behind her slammed shut, the Queen of France rose to her feet and stalked to the window. The last vestiges of sun were a tenuous streak across the firmament, and, together with them, the remnants of her good mood faded, like a wisp of smoke.

 _That was both preposterous and hilarious: the confrontation of the jealous harpy and the spouse, who hates the very idea of marriage._ At this moment, Anne acutely felt the difficulties of her second matrimony. The word 'wife' made her discomfited, terrified, and furious all at once. François and she had agreed to give little meaning to their relationship of mutual convenience, but she was haunted by the thought that soon her life would be upended in some dramatic way.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness swept over her, and Anne's eyes fluttered shut in response to the nausea that followed. "I did not sleep well today. I just need to rest more."

Anne prodded across the room to a large, canopied bed, draped in gray brocade, its thick draperies tied back. Two walls were frescoed with images from Sophocles' Greek tragedies, and the others were covered with more gray brocade. The bedside tables were made of walnut and marble. All of the armchairs and coaches were silvered and upholstered in dove-colored silk.

Climbing onto the bed, she snuggled under the covers, intent on falling asleep. Instead, her thoughts were whirling, like leaves in an autumn wind, drifting towards her husband.

Separated by an insurmountable, ugly wall of superstition and custom, spouses in most arranged marriages were unlikely to develop knowledge of, and respect to each other, without which every union was doomed to failure. In Anne's case, the situation was worse: her husband was a monarch, who could burn her to cinders lest she outlived her usefulness. Dante's motto over his _Inferno_ applied with equal force to marriage: " _Abandon all hope, ye who enter here._ "

Anne had taken huge risks when she had wed another ruler. "God, I beseech you to guide me. It cannot be that I was born to suffer in each of my marriages to two kings."

Another of the queen's numerous phobias was that King François would demand absolute obedience in all things. To Anne, such a turn of events would be the most horrible thing, at which her soul revolted, roared, and wept at the same time. The subjugation of female nature by husband was worse than ruination, for it led to the soul's poverty and its sordidness. Anne's heart wounds were still deep, raw, and bleeding, like a prisoner's multiple injuries from the rack.

Anne again found herself weak with dizziness, her stomach pitching with slight nausea. Ignoring her discomfort, she told herself, "I shall not be governed by François. Never ever! If one day he decides to destroy me, I'll fight against him tooth and nail."

 _Monarchs always expect their subjects to fulfill their wishes. I am not François' mere subject, but he is still my sovereign, so he can order me to do anything._ By the natural significance of the matrimonial institution, he had the right to force his queen to perform her conjugal duties. She entertained for François all kinds of feelings, except for amorous ones, and she wanted their union to remain one based on their mutual political needs. It was not in the power of the new Anne Boleyn to bestow even a shred of affection upon any man, even her own husband.

"I'm not destined for happiness," the queen speculated, her arms folded over her chest. "Only young people allow themselves the luxury of romance. And they are pounded by the rough hands of fate until they get wiser. Henry made me more than sensible."

Suddenly, the world spun around, like a dancer performing a spirited tarantella. Anne leaned from the bed and emptied the contents of her stomach onto the floor. As she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, she thought that she could have eaten something that damaged the balance of her humors. _It is nothing. Soon I'll feel better_ , the queen persuaded herself.

* * *

 ** _October 10, 1536, Château de Chamerolles, near Orléans, Loire Valley, France_**

The military council was held in the royal presence chamber. The shadows of the evening stretched out across the land. The candlelight illuminated the room that was filled with the French councilors, who were cheerful after the capture of the emperor's younger brother.

The detailed map of the Loire Valley was laid out on the long table. It was full of small notes about all of the territories, which were currently occupied by the Imperial forces, as well as about the fortresses and other places, which belonged to the French at this stage.

King François leaned back in his throne-like chair, adorned with the Valois heraldry. "We should launch an offensive on the Spanish. Since Ferdinand's capture, the opposing parties have been staying close to each other but not attacking. It is a lull before the storm."

Anne de Montmorency concurred, despite his usually conservative approach to military operations. "The emperor's ultimate goal is to capture Paris. He has not tried to attack us only for one reason – we have Archduke Ferdinand in custody. But he has not acceded to our main demand to withdraw his forces to the south, so now he might be plotting."

Cardinal François de Tournon estimated their sworn foe's talents. "Carlos von Habsburg is a cunning strategist. All of his battles are products of art."

Concentrated, Queen Anne didn't miss a word. A sense of alarm and unease crept along her spine as questions assaulted her consciousness. What if the emperor endeavored to attack the French troops in order to liberate his brother? Did François ever consider that his armies could be vanquished again? Her mind recoiled from such thoughts, like an exorcised demon.

Montmorency's voice was laced with worry. "One of the emperor's maxims is that war should be undertaken with forces proportionate to the obstacles a general must overcome. Now there are two hurdles to his victory: our Protestant alliance and his brother's captivity."

A muscle twitched in the monarch's jaw. "So, he might try to harm my wife."

Queen Anne remained silent, but a shadow crossed her otherwise blank countenance. As her gaze intercepted the king's, she discerned a momentary flash of fear in his eyes. Emperor Carlos was her adversary since King Henry had started the Great Matter to dispose of his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. The man had not acknowledged her as the Queen of England, and he must have rejoiced when Anne had been defamed by Henry as a treacherous adulteress.

"That is possible," opined Tournon.

His eyes flying to his spouse, King François encapsulated, "Anne is France's symbol of international unity against the Habsburgs. She is the very reason why the German Protestant States have allied with us, and the emperor shall not condone it. As now we have his sibling jailed, he might attempt to capture Anne and then exchange her for Ferdinand."

Anne set her chin at a defiant angle. "I am not afraid of the emperor."

The monarch retorted, "Fearlessness is like a muscle. The more one exercises it, the more natural it becomes not to let one's fears overrun them. Is that right, Anne?"

In Orléans, the queen avoided her husband like a plague. To her surprise, now she was glad to indulge in light conversation with him. "Fearlessness is our great joy."

François guffawed heartily. "What a magnificent situation we have found ourselves in! The intrepid Anne Boleyn and I are together against the Habsburg Empire!"

An involuntary smile curled her lips. "It is the union of brave hearts!"

"That is true, Anne." His expression evolved into seriousness as the king emphasized, "Anne, you and I've both been falsely accused of things we have never committed. That is why we have created the coalition of two courageous people whose reputations were besmirched. I swear that we will reinstate them in due time and call our offenders to answer."

The advisors wondered what sort of deal existed between their king and queen. It seemed that Anne and François intended to create some stratagem against the English monarch.

There was a bellicose blaze in the dark eyes. "God is on our side."

Nodding at his wife, the ruler turned to Annebault. "Claude, I want you to have my queen watched every hour. Fifteen most skilled men from the Scots guard should always guard the doors to her apartments and accompany her wherever she goes."

Claude d'Annebault promised, "Your Majesty, I'll ensure the queen's safety and have the security measures toughened. I swear I'll safeguard her with my life."

The monarch trusted Annebault. "Thank you."

Montmorency moved the discourse back to the military agenda. "In most of his previous battles, the emperor's armies usually had their two wings resting aside or upon some natural obstacle, such as rivers, ravines, or chains of mountains. At present, only one flank of their forces is stationed on the Loire River, and we can use it to our advantage."

"The other wing is exposed," concluded the ruler.

"Yes," confirmed the Marshal of France. "I'm in agreement with Your Majesty that we should attack him soon, before he has a chance to invent something against us. If we give him a battle near the city of Orléans, only his supported wing will launch a counterstrike. We can destroy the exposed divisions while simultaneously engaging the rest of their troops in battle."

François contradicted, "In this case, Carlos will depend upon a central formation. Then he will not allow the different divisions under his command to depart from him. Thus, we will be unable to split the Imperial wings and then destroy the unprotected flank."

Annebault interposed, "The easiest way to be cheated is to believe yourself to be more cunning than your adversary. That is why we simply need a crafty plan."

A thought lanced through Anne's brain. "It would be difficult for the emperor to contend with us if his _both_ flanks are exposed. Therefore, if we could make the unprotected wing of his troops retreat south from the river bank, then we will be able to exploit his weakness."

Once more, her intelligence surprised Anne de Montmorency. "That would be the best thing to achieve. If their divisions retreat a few miles from the river, we will try to further split the adversary. The question is how we can accomplish that."

Anne schooled her features into modesty. "The art of war is similar to that of winning in chess. In life and war, as in chess, forethought, craft, and strategy win."

François encouraged, "I want to know your opinion, Anne."

The queen demonstrated her brilliant knowledge of history. "I mentioned the second Persian invasion of Greece during the military council at Fontainebleau. Now I cannot help but remember it again, especially the Battle of Plataea. It was the final land confrontation between the Greeks and the Persians." She stilled for a fraction of a second, collecting her thoughts. "After a series of disastrous losses, the Greeks assembled a large army in the Peloponnesus in the summer of 479 BC. They then marched to Plataea, where the Persians erected a fortified camp."

The king smiled, for he and his wife both liked the ancient history of Rome and Greece. "If my memory serves me well, upon their arrival there, the allied Greek forces didn't engage the foe straight away. They remained at some distance from the Persian camp, and, after spreading a rumor that their supply lines were disrupted, they feigned a retreat."

His wife grinned at him. "Your memory is perfect, sire. Thinking that the Greeks were in precipitate retreat, the Persian general Mardonius ordered his forces to pursue them. The Greeks halted and took the offensive against the enemy, annihilating the Persian infantry and Mardonius."

Impressed, everyone gave an exclamation of amazement.

François admired Anne's intelligence, which he had already seen in full display. Yet, he had never known any lady – save his mother and sister – who could be as shrewd and pragmatic as a weasel. It was what he had lacked in early youth. Anne would make a great consort, so the king would let her rule alongside Marguerite and him. _Maybe she will understand that I am not like Henry and do not need women only for childbearing._ This thought surprised him.

The royal smirk was quite jaunty. "We will approach the emperor's protected flank near the Loire River. After pausing nearby, we will spread gossip that we will not attack because our supply and communication lines were disrupted. Then we will feign retreat to goad Carlos into launching an onslaught on us while being ready to make a fierce counterattack."

Annebault conjectured, "If we act quickly, we may have a large portion of the Spanish army trapped in their camp. So, we can end up having a skirmish, not even a battle."

Montmorency advocated caution. "This plan may result in our resounding victory. Yet, I expect a bloody battle. If we win, the exposed Imperial flank will be razed to the ground, and the rest of the Habsburg armies will move south, where we will split them further."

The queen's gaze was glued to the Marshal of France. Once King François had mentioned that Anne de Montmorency and Diane de Poitiers were allies and friends. Diane could become her enemy: the dauphin's beloved mistress would hate to be outshone by Anne and to lose some of her influence at court after Anne's wedding to the monarch. On the other hand, Montmorency was a foe of Anne de Pisseleu, who was also the queen's adversary. _Having a good relationship with Montmorency may help me. The enemy of my enemy is my ally_ , the queen mused _._

In the next instant, Anne noticed Montmorency's unblinking scrutiny riveted upon her. In his eyes, she deciphered a grudging respect for her talent and her genuine desire to help France. Perhaps she would find common ground with the marshal, despite his being a devout papist.

Tournon predicted, "Then he will withdraw south to ensure his brother's safety."

The queen reveled in the prospect of the French victory near Orléans, especially if it would be based on her plan. "Emperor Carlos is a devious spider, who weaves a web to catch his prey. We should act in the same fashion: like the most competent chess player, we will take his flanks out of the game, and then split his remaining troops into more exposed wings."

The King of France was exalted at this stratagem. "Chess and war are not for timid souls."

Tournon quizzed, "Does Your Majesty approve of the plan?"

"I do. Ensure that our men know what they must do." The ruler's smile testified to the nascent hope that they would succeed in their endeavors.

"I shall see to it," promised Montmorency.

From the beginning of the invasion, all of the military debates had run hot and heavy. But the final word lay with the King of France. In the art of war, one of the main premises for success was to confer the command upon one individual. If the authority was divided in battle, the opinions of the commanders often varied too drastically, and, consequently, the operations were doomed to be deprived of that _strategic ensemble_ which was the first essential to triumph. Moreover, all the generals believed in their liege lord's ability to succeed in the enterprise of France's salvation.

Annebault supplemented, "Landgrave Philip of Hesse and I've been training our men to coordinate their actions in battle, and I'm satisfied with the results. In a couple of weeks, the armies of Philip's allies from the German Protestant states will join us at Orléans."

"Excellent!" There was something else the King of France wished to know. "Any news from our Turkish allies? Have our envoys returned from Constantinople?"

Tournon managed international affairs, so he regularly received the information from foreign courts and the bits of intelligence from their spies. "The Turks received our call for help. They earnestly consented to coordinate their actions with us. They are currently assembling their huge armies to move them towards the city of Vienna, for they want to seize the chance to partition Austria in the absence of both the emperor and his brother."

This announcement drew malicious smiles from the congregation.

The ruler exploded with laughter. "God is apparently with us! It would be spectacular to watch the Ottomans take advantage of their superior numbers."

Montmorency's features twisted in disgust. "Your Majesty knows that I've never been fond of our alliance with the heathens." Then his countenance softened. "Nevertheless, now we have to rely on them. The threat from the Turks will place the emperor in a difficult position. He will have to choose whether to continue his attempts to subjugate France or to move his armies to Austria and defend Vienna. Perhaps he will remove all of his mercenaries from France."

Anne had a different forecast. "The emperor will do that, but not before he labors to crush the French once more and to have his brother released."

"Perhaps Your Majesty is right." As usual, Montmorency found her words reasonable.

"What about the Ottoman navy?" The monarch wanted the Turks to attack Vienna while also undertaking some operation against the Spanish fleet at sea.

In the candlelight, Tournon's grizzled beard glistened like snowflakes in the winter sun. "Sultan Suleiman will also order his fleet under the command of Hayreddin Barbarossa to blockade Genoa and Spanish ports, particularly Seville, Malaga, Almería, and Cádiz. They think that the best tactic would be to blockade the mouth of the Guadalquivir river in order to keep ships from getting to their ports. The trade will be paralyzed, and there will be no delivery of gold either."

A whoop of joy echoed through the room, like the hymn of their upcoming triumph.

At this moment, the monarch's frame of mind was nearly airy. "With all the bad events which have transpired during the invasion, this outstanding tidbits is like an oasis."

"We must all pray for France," asserted Anne with reverence.

"God help us!" chorused the councilors.

François summarized their today's discussion. "Time for doubts and scruples has passed. Now we must hope that providence or our own wisdom will avert demons from France."

At their sovereign's sign, his advisors stood up and swept bows to the King and Queen of France. Then the assemblage quitted the room and retired to their chambers.

§§§

Queen Anne rose to her feet. Before she could take a step, her whole world commenced swirling clockwise and then anticlockwise. Caught up in a vertigo, she felt like she was close to fainting, so she tumbled into her chair. Suddenly, all the strength seemed to have been sucked from her. A wave of nausea assaulted Anne, sending a lot of bile into her throat.

"Ah," she breathed as she shut her eyes, touching her forehead.

A concerned François approached her. "You look rather pale, Anne."

"I'm fine, sire." Her quiet voice was layered with ire. She was furious with herself for being so vulnerable in the king's presence. "I'm feeling much better now."

As she opened her eyes, the monarch stood beside her, his visage imbued with concern. Wounding an arm around her, he hoisted his wife to her feet and steadied her as she wobbled.

The ruler offered, "Let me walk you to your room. Then I'll summon my physician."

After the weakness receded, Anne protested, "I'm unworthy of Your Majesty's care and attention. You must have other important affairs to attend to."

The queen curtsied and hastened out of the room without a backward glance.

A spasm of hurt knifed François like a poniard in the heart. The walls, created by his wife between them, seemed as impregnable as the thick stone battlements of an unassailable fortress. Anne's misery was fully attributable to Henry's atrocities towards her, and the roots of her decision to distance herself from François lay in the horrible blackness of her recent past.

Anne had grown up at her husband's cultured court that was frivolous. Yet, any French girl was told from infancy that marriage was her ultimate goal, so her training and education were directed towards that end. Maybe a French maid knew more about her function as wife and mother than other virgins. As most nobles married strangers, love and happiness were mostly incongruent things in their pygmy lives, and François himself had not loved any of his previous wives.

Anne Boleyn was a Frenchwoman in many ways, but she was not like the king's female courtiers. There was no doubt in François' mind that Anne was a person of high moral code and values, one who was more decent than most of the French noblewomen. Nonetheless, she knew how to use her allure and education to the utmost benefit, which had assisted her in conquering the volatile Tudor monarch. In any country, a woman could wed someone only to find herself repelled by his mere presence, but it should not have been the case in Anne's marriage to François.

Poisonous fumes of hatred penetrated the Valois monarch. _We were on good terms before our wedding. I believed that our friendship would last into our marital life. Because of Henry's transgressions, I cannot have a normal life with Anne._ His spouse was no longer a maiden, who considered it filthy for her to know anything of the marital relations. Nonetheless, Anne despised the foundations of matrimony, for she had no desire not only to share a bed with François but also to be in his company. The King of France blamed his English counterpart for that.

"How can I change my marriage to Anne?" King François said aloud, staring at the door. Not wishing Anne to suffer, he was puzzled as to why he cared about her sentiments.

§§§

After returning to her quarters, Queen Anne asked the few ladies who had accompanied her to Orléans from Fontainebleau to leave her to a deep and much-desired solitude.

She stood near the window, pressing her face to the glass. The sun had descended to its nighttime home, and the heavens were dark, like a black glass. It would start raining soon, torrents of water gushing forth like a breached dam. The summer had long departed, and autumn was in full swing, so the chill seeped into the room, as well as into Anne's skin through the glass.

 _It would be quite interesting if you found yourself with child after this night._

The words spoken by François on their wedding night had turned out to be prophetic. Her frequent dizziness and nausea had confirmed her suspicion. Those words reverberated through her brain and drowned out the tragic melancholy of her current personal situation. Anne eagerly clung to them, never wanting to lose the feeling of the truth as it settled into her bones.

"I must be pregnant," Anne Boleyn whispered to herself, tears of gladness brimming in her eyes. "God, I conceived François' child on the wedding night."

At present, she was positioned on the brink of tremendous changes, moving towards the realm of motherhood. Since her departure from England, the bleak slopes of loneliness had risen towards the shark-finned ridges of Anne's barren existence in France. Now a new life was growing inside of her, and Anne could feel the rhythms of her baby's tacit little soul. No longer would her desolation be intensified by frigid moonlight, if she awoke in the dead of night.

"I love this unexpected child." She let out a laugh of delight, her hand sliding to her belly.

A veil of sadness tinged her countenance. Despite being an ambitious woman, she viewed motherhood as the highest fulfillment of feminine nature. Any child needed love and care, and its parents should love each other in the ideal situation. However, according to her experience, marital bonds could defile a mother's happiness, just as Henry's disappointment with Elizabeth's gender had once smashed Anne's life into pieces. _I do not love the father of my baby, and François does not love me either. Will he care for the child as much as I do? And what if it is a girl?_

She swiveled and crossed the room, yearning to escape from her apartments. The interior was too somber and had lacked the warmth of human occupancy for quite some time. Everything around was gray, and the ceiling, swathed in dark brocade, hung overhead like a canopy of gloomy clouds. She was too delighted with her discovery to stay here for another night.

As Anne exited into the antechamber, there was a genuine smile on her face. "Ladies, I want to be lodged in another room decorated in vibrant colors."

The hymn of life streamed from the heart beating in her belly. This time, her motherhood was not of free choice, of love, of ecstasy, and of passion. Even if Anne had a son, the babe would not have a crown upon its head, for François already had two sons to succeed him. But her child would not need anything, and Anne would love it with every fibre of her being.

§§§

As the evening tumbled into night, the monarch retired to his quarters. In spite of being spacious, they were not nearly as luxurious as his apartments at other royal châteaux. The walls were draped in tapestries depicting colorful fairies and birds. This room would better suit Anne than him, or both of them if they had shared a bed. Pushing these thoughts aside, he surveyed the heavy ebony furniture which certainly belonged to the years of King Louis XI's reign.

At the knock on the door, the king stood up. "Come in."

The door opened. "It is done, my liege." Anne de Montmorency stood on the threshold of the bedchamber, but he did not enter. "I've arranged everything as discreetly as possible."

"Thank you, Monty," François responded with a grin. "And you?"

There was an odd embarrassment in Montmorency's visage. "Annebault has fetched two pretty courtesans from the best brothel in Orléans for us both. I'm a martial man, but sometimes, I need to relax. It is worse than an affair with a noblewoman, but we are at war."

The monarch patted his shoulder. "There is no reason to feel ashamed."

The Marshal of France attempted to smile, but it was a rather lopsided effort. "I hope that you will like the woman who obviously wants to be with Your Majesty."

Montmorency bowed and left the room. Then the lady, who was the wife of Gaspard de Chamerolles, Bailiff of Orléans, walked in. As she sank into a deep curtsey, her lips curved in a salacious grin, and her cheeks flushed like the petals of an apple blossom.

"Rise, Madame de Chamerolles," François permitted as he closed the door.

Straightening, she met his assessing gaze. "Good afternoon, Your Majesty. Thank you for inviting me to your chambers. I'm Dangereuse for you."

"Dangereuse! It is such a lovely ancient Poitevin name."

"I was named after Dangereuse de l'Isle Bouchard, Eleanor of Aquitaine's grandmother."

His breathing quickened. "Your parents had a fine taste for names."

A lewd light came into her eyes. "I'll not disappoint you, my liege."

"What about your spouse? Will he challenge me to a duel, then?"

His jest sent her into a fit of laughter. "He knows that every dame must please her king."

"As always." Many fathers and husbands sent their daughters and wives to court. In the hope of obtaining privileges, they were instructed on how to catch the king's eye.

Dangereuse de Chamerolles removed her cloak of violet damask ornamented with silver. As she did not wear any undergarments beneath it, now she stood nude in front of her sovereign. Her head was tilted so that her long, auburn hair flowed back in bronze waves, almost touching her waist. Although she was approximately of Anne Boleyn's age, her young body was not the envy of all women and was not desired by all men, for it bore some marks of her pregnancies by her husband. However, Dangereuse was voluptuous and shapely, her feminine curves enticing, while her face was attractive with verdant eyes, thick golden eyebrows, and full mouth.

His silence unnerved her. "Is everything to your liking?"

François howled with laughter. "Of course. I admire your boldness, Madame."

Her lips were moist and vividly colored. "An indecent boldness meets with friends. And its best friend is the most amorous and handsome monarch in the world."

He observed the lust-dazed expression of her eyes. "Then fall into my arms."

Compelled by an ageless male need, the ruler engulfed her into an embrace and kissed her. His lover pushed aside his robe and stroked his chest, exploring his muscled torso. Soon they were in a big bed canopied with pink taffeta curtains. Without restraint, she unashamedly offered her body to him, her arms closing hungrily about his shoulders as François pounded into her, alternating slow and frantic rhythms, their cries and groans intermingling. Frequently, Dangereuse interrupted their couplings to lavish the king with the most audacious caresses, and the carnal arching of their entangled forms reflected in their sinuous movements.

At midnight, Dangereuse wanted him to make love to her again. "No woman can ever withstand your overpowering attack on her senses. Take me again, my king!"

To her surprise, François rolled to the other side of the bed. "Leave."

After the offended woman was gone, the king donned his robe. He lit a candle and sat at his desk, slowly drinking wine while composing a verse, his mind fully on his spouse.

 _The Knight-King was a picture of delight_

 _When first Queen Anne gleamed upon his sight._

 _She was a lovely apparition, sent_

 _To be just a moment's ornament,_

 _Her eyes as shadows of twilight dark,_

 _Like twilight's colors, too, her luscious hair._

 _But all things else about her drawn_

 _From their short friendship and their former dawn,_

 _A flickering joy and, worse, a shadow_

 _Remain to haunt, to startle, and to waylay._

 _He saw Anne upon nearer view,_

 _A dead spirit, yet a woman, too!_

 _Her motions no longer light and free,_

 _And steps of grace, yet doom, to heavy!_

 _A countenance in which did once meet_

 _Vivacious smile and sweet records,_

 _A creature too bright to ever exist_

 _For human nature's daily food, even his,_

 _Anne is for transient sorrows and for bliss_

 _For praise, love, smiles, and kisses, especially his._

As he finished the verse, the monarch repeated the last words depressingly, "Anne Boleyn is not for eternal grief – she is for praise, love, smiles, and _my_ kisses."

François thought of his wife, despite his body being sated tonight. His affairs no longer entertained him as much as they had done before his marriage, and this conundrum consumed him, robbing him of sleep. He did not care that Anne de Pisseleu would be angry with him for his liaison with Dangereuse, for his mistress had no say in his life. Yet, he felt guilty for again cheating on Queen Anne, which had become a recurring feeling during his rendezvouses.

"You will not see this poem, Anne." He folded the parchment and slipped it into one of the drawers. "You are an apparition of your former self. But even your shadow delights me."

Tomorrow, the king would relocate to the rooms closest to his consort's apartments, where she had moved in the afternoon. Maybe if he was closer to her, she would talk to him, because he knew that she appreciated their intellectual parleys. However, optimism was a good hypothesis that did not always work, so he sighed regretfully. Nevertheless, François was drawn to Anne far more than any of his mistresses, and the very idea that they could spend a mere hour together inundated him with a rapture beyond the power of words to express.

* * *

 _I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave a review and let me know what you think, for it will encourage me to continue writing and posting this story._

 _Anne Boleyn met with Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, Duchess d'Étampes, who is the King of France's long-term maîtresse-en-tire. Their relationship will be rather toxic in later chapters, for the monarch's mistress will be jealous of her royal lover's new wife. The duchess is afraid of the queen's ability to take the French ruler away from her, together with her power at court._

 _Queen Anne is with child after her wedding night with François, which is going to change Anne's situation in France dramatically. Of course, Anne's condition will have a certain impact on her relationship with François. Don't think that the baby will bring Anne and François closer quickly, for it would have been implausible, given Anne's horrible trauma caused by Henry in England. François' one-night affair with Dangereuse is consistent with what I said about him before: he is not going to repudiate his mistresses any time soon because he has no reason to do that, and he will also engage in random sexual encounters._

 _The references to the second Persian invasion of Greece are historically correct. As Anne knows ancient history well, François rapidly understands what she suggests to win the next battle._

 _I composed the two poems given in this chapter, and I hope you like them._

 _Yours sincerely,_  
 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	9. Chapter 8: Battles of Love and Hate

**Chapter 8:** **Battles of Love and Hate**

 ** _October 20, 1536, the Palace of Whitehall, London, England_**

"Fetch me Lady Anne Bassett," enjoined King Henry as he eased himself onto the bed.

He stretched his body along the red silk sheets, letting out a sigh of frustration. His gaze veered to a window, and he saw the leaden firmament that pressed down upon the earth.

Five months had elapsed since his former queen's release from the Tower. Five months of tranquility and peacefulness on the surface, but underneath a seething cauldron of inner tumult and boredom. Since he had learned about the sensational wedding in France, Henry's emotions alternated between berserk fury, chasmal desolation, and satanic hatred. Each of them was caused by the only woman who could make his mood swerve in all directions – Anne Boleyn.

Heartache was an overriding emotion, excruciating like a knife point jammed through the skin all the way to the bone. Day and night, Henry was haunted by visions of Anne and François, which were devouring him like hungry lions would do to a prey. Anne and François joining hands and exchanging vows. François making love to his new wife, who moaned in pleasure, begging him for more. François and Anne laughing maliciously at Henry, calling him a wretched fool.

"Damn you, Anne!" Henry roared, as if she could hear him. "Why did you marry that French bastard? How could you betray England and me so utterly?"

"Your Majesty," called his paramour, struggling to keep her voice devoid of displeasure. She had entered exactly at the moment when the ruler had cursed his former queen.

A tall and slender woman, Lady Anne Bassett, with her golden fluff of hair, bright golden-green eyes, and lush, rosy lips, was the cynosure of all eyes at court. Many nobles admired her beauty and wanted to be her partner in the lewd dances of pleasures; she frequently received indecent offers from them. But she would be with none of them, as at present, her body belonged to the King of England, who, however, was not someone she could ever fall for.

Her femininity surpassed the appeal of her youth. Her innocence had long dissolved in the whirlwind of court life. Her sultry smile was as natural to her as breathing. Her red robe, ornamented with pearls, stressed her slim waist and ample bosom, drawing the ruler's attention to the roundedness of her hips. _I do not care whether she loves me. I want her body_ , Henry mused.

The monarch beckoned, "Come to me, my sweet Anne. Make me happy tonight!"

 _I'm just a poor replacement for the woman the king cannot have,_ Lady Bassett spat in her mind. Though burly, Henry was handsome and still quite athletic in build, so it was not unpleasant to be pressed by his broad frame to the sheets. His red-flaming hair was like the fingertips of a raging fire which burned a woman from the inside out when he made love to her. Regardless of the monarch's tyranny, he was an ardent and skilled lover, whose appetite was voracious.

The royal paramour plastered a smile on her face. "I'll do whatever my king wishes."

As she approached, King Henry pulled her down on the bed, his body covering hers. The touch of his mouth at hers was so bruising, yet intoxicating, that Lady Bassett unconsciously arched up closer, her head thrown back, and her eyes closed in the sensual delight she always felt in his arms. The anger she had felt with him moments ago abated, and she snaked her arms around his back. They both held each other willing prisoners of passion in their embrace.

His breathing shallow and ragged, Henry commented, "You are so experienced."

"Is that good or bad?" Her face was flushed, her mouth red from their kisses.

Grinning cynically, he pontificated, "Normal for a lover, but not for a wife, especially not for a queen. A royal mistress nourishes and feeds her liege lord's body. She must possess perfect physical beauty that delights the eye of her king. She must express her knowledge in lovemaking with unstinted eloquence in a way that is the most gratifying for her sovereign."

A gush of fury surged through Anne, but she forced a stiff smile. "Your Majesty's desire is the law. All of your subjects must serve your pleasure, needs, and wants."

He was as selfish as a screaming infant who thinks that the universe is there waiting to answer their cry. The appeal of being a royal harlot suddenly waned like the ebbing tide, to expose once hidden doubts about her future after he discarded her. Lady Bassett had once been a mistress of Sir Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, and the ruler had not taken her virginity. Yet, her liaison with the king, which everyone was aware of at court, had ruined her marriage prospects.

Her response pleased the monarch. "Then let me enjoy your body in all the ways I need."

Anne Bassett was torn between rage and submission. The manner he conversed with her was condescending, but she craved the rapture of their dissolution. "Dearest sire, you are the God Eros. Any mortal woman who catches your eye surrenders herself to your passions and is happy to give her love to you willingly, abundantly, and faithfully for every moment of her life."

"You are obedient," uttered Henry thickly. He began kissing her neck, his hands roaming over her figure. Breathing against her flushed skin, he muttered, "Yet, you are also a wild cat in my arms who, however, quickly bends to my will. You are both fire and milk!"

"Such an unusual combination." Her ire began simmering again.

Henry jerked her head up, his mouth finding hers in a possessive kiss. Their clothes were discarded and thrown off to litter the floor until they were both stripped bare. The pristine hunger in the aquamarine eyes inflamed the mistress as much as the sight of his aroused body did. Their blood singing with epicurean excitement, they kissed, explored, caressed, and found themselves in numerous pleasurable positions, which Henry could never try with his wife, Jane Seymour.

As the monarch lay on his back, his mistress kissed and licked his throat, chest, ribcage, and stomach. Her head slipped up and down as her mouth was being assaulting his torso. As always there were no inhibitions in their lascivious games, her lips slid to his hips, and she sucked his manhood for a long time, his groans almost ear-piercing, punctuated by her laughter. In these moments, they were just sinners, drowning in a deluge of gorgeous carnal enjoyment.

Moaning wantonly, the royal paramour fell back onto the soft sheet, crooking her finger in invitation. "My king, take me! Please, fill me with you!"

Satisfaction nickered across his face. "That I will, my frolicsome cat."

As he lay on top of his lover, Henry pulled her legs apart and penetrated Anne with one hard stroke. To avoid the uncomfortable feeling of his heavy body on her lithe one, she managed to climb atop of him, and for a moment, he was sprawled out beneath her. However, soon Henry dominated her again, putting her beneath him on the bed, and he began pounding into her violently, as if he were plundering a conquered city. His thrusts became so wild and too strong that they pushed the coverlets and sheets off the bed until they rested on the mattress.

It was as if the god Dionysus of wine and ritual madness infused drunken violence into Henry tonight. The vehemence of this indecent and unrestrained lovemaking surpassed that of all their previous encounters. Henry instinctively hoped to achieve with his passionate paramour the same feverish and celestial fulfillment as the one he had experienced with Queen Anne. Images of his last intimacy with his exiled wife, when they had danced La Volta and conceived their lost son, tormented the monarch like fiends, and he clung to his mistress tightly, wanting to possess every part of her and to allow the heat of their bodies to shelter him from these memories.

The ache in the king's loins was quickening until he convulsed, as waves of exquisite rapture shuddered through him. In an instant, his harlot was flying, her body quaking hard and fast, as she found the pinnacle, heat from their bodies swirling around her like a lover's caress. At this moment, his lips were not on hers, and Henry shifted to the other side of the bed, as though she repelled him tonight, like something cheap and filthy that could not be scrubbed off.

"Leave," commanded the monarch in an uncompromising tone.

Still dazed, Anne blinked. "Your Majesty, have I done something wrong?"

"I said leave!" he bellowed, his glare blazing like a bale-fire.

The scared woman clambered out of bed. She donned her robe and curtsied to him, even though he stared vacantly into space. Then she scampered across the chamber and stormed out.

His emotions tangled, Henry flicked his gaze to a nearby window. During their coupling, a rainstorm had started outside, and now the wind drove against the shutters with violence. The trees waved and thrashed, as if in the throes of agony. There was an almost human sighing and moaning in all these ominous sounds, as if portending some imminent trouble.

It was a long time since weather and nature in London had been in a more dismal mood. The dreary weather mirrored the impervious blackness in Henry's inner realm. Never after Anne's condemnation, had he been more cast down in heart and hope for the better future.

The king's heart hammered in resurfacing anger, as if propelled by a raging gale. With dull wonder and dismay, Henry realized that tonight, his mistress had not quenched his need for the fire which only his former spouse could give him. Despite her betrayals, he still had voracious hunger for the Boleyn whore, even though now she belonged to another king. As the ire simmered, the loathing for Anne grew in equal measure, like a poison tree in his consciousness.

Henry recalled that he had not slept with Jane in the past week. Although his third wife was a sun of kindness and joy, gathering light and storing it, she no longer excited him as a woman, for she was too shy and phlegmatic in bed to his liking. The months, which had elapsed without a child in Jane's womb, cemented the king's misery and increased his hankerings for affairs with other women. _But I have a marital duty to fulfill to sire a son,_ he sighed wordlessly.

§§§

The vacant aquamarine eyes stared into the gray ones. His hands tightening on her hips, Henry thrust into Jane deeper than before. A guttural sound fled his throat as he shuddered and spilled himself into her. He then rolled to his back, pulled the covers over his wife, and climbed out of bed, picking up his robe of tawny brocade ornamented with gold and Tudor roses.

Suddenly, the queen felt cold despite the warmth of the sheets. "Your Majesty, are you leaving me now? Have I displeased you?" Her voice was fragile like a thin string.

His mistress had asked him the same question. Now his spouse's words exacerbated his temper, and the ruler snapped, "I did not plan to stay long, Jane. As your king and husband, I can do whatever I want to you and anyone in England. I do not need your permission."

Having put on his robe, Henry strode to the door with a forbidding expression. Outside, the rainstorm still whistled, torrents of water pelting the shutters, like handfuls of rocks.

"I'm sorry, sire." There were tears in her voice and an edge of panic.

Standing in the doorway, the king swiveled to face her. "Jane, you are a lovely English rose. However, only one thing can settle things right in my life and kingdom, as well as between you and me. I need the healthy Prince of Wales who will carry on the Tudor legacy."

Jane grimaced ruefully. "I do not know why I'm not pregnant yet…" She schooled her features into calmness. "I'll beseech the Lord to take mercy upon _us_ and give _us_ a son."

He arched a brow. "Upon _us_ or you?"

" _Us_ ," replied his wife confidently. She then voiced her thoughts on the institution of marriage. "Matrimony is holy and unbreakable. Husband and wife are together, on the same side, and they can count on each other as a great source of encouragement and strength."

At this moment, all the good disposition towards his wife seemed to have left his nature. "I'm the King of England, and if I speak to the Lord, He hears me and guides me to carry out His will. I've done nothing wrong, so I have no reason to beg for His forgiveness."

Henry took several steps forward and paused in the center of the bedchamber. His slitted eyes exuded such savage ferociousness that it caused Jane to feel as though her body had been wedged between two vice grips. A chilly wind of his suspicion hit her like a physical blow.

He gritted out, "Jane, have you sinned in a way that can taint our marriage?"

Fear flashed over her pale countenance. "I've never lied to Your Majesty. I do not have any secrets from you. You know that I was a maid when–" She broke off, blushing.

Most of his brutality vanished, but there was still a slice of distrust lurking in his eyes. "I remember our wedding night, Jane. Don't be afraid of me, and do your duty to me."

She averred, "I'll give you a son, sire. I shall conceive soon."

His confidence was somewhat restored. "I pray that it is true. Good night."

After he had vacated the room, Jane dissolved into a flood of tears, sobbing like a heroine of some Greek tragedy. She felt sick to the core – sick of her continuous unhappiness, of Henry's insane obsession with male heirs. Every day was a torture: Henry reminded her that her sacred duty was to give him a son, while her relatives blamed her for not falling pregnant quickly.

Her thoughts tangled and coiled. _Why does he tell me that I'm the sun of his life and then suspect me of being a sinner? But I love Henry with_ _all my heart, and I'll do anything to keep him as my husband._ Jane persuaded herself that her life would go back to normal when she finally conceived. Once she birthed Henry's baby boy, her achievement would appeal to that part of him that cherished all beauty and chivalry he had demonstrated to her during their short courtship.

"I just need a son," Jane murmured like a mantra, sobbing into the pillow.

The door flung open, and Edward Seymour's voice set chills down the queen's spine. "Indeed, you must give the king a son as soon as possible! Your task is to ascertain that there will be a Seymour king upon the throne of England, not the whore's bastard daughter."

The queen pulled the sheet over herself in instinctive caution. "Edward, a man is not allowed to be in my bedchamber. Please, get out!"

"Rules matter not for our family," Edward stated with a ring of finality.

Elizabeth informed, "Your others ladies are sleeping. They will not see us here."

"Jane, don't be so coy. You are no longer a virgin!" Thomas was making fun out of her.

Edward crossed the chamber, followed by his other siblings; only Dorothy said nothing. Edward and Thomas settled in two matching oak chairs by the fireplace, where flames were licking over logs. Lady Elizabeth Cromwell née Seymour and Lady Dorothy Smith née Seymour seated themselves on the edge of the royal bed, and Dorothy took her sister's hand in hers.

His brows furrowed, Edward inquired forthrightly, "Has the king plant his seed into you tonight, Jane? We know that he spent the previous week with Anne Bassett."

Thomas interjected, "Is there hope that he could get you with child?"

Jane was conscious of disappointment, anger, and embarrassment at this interrogation. "Brothers, why do you never ask me about my wellbeing? Are you indifferent to me?"

Annoyance painted Edward's countenance. "Enough melodramatics and foolishness out of you, Jane. Each of us wants only the best for you, but our family's interests are our priority. Without a Tudor son in the royal cradle, our position at court is vulnerable. To accumulate more power and to become invisible, we must prove our worth to the king."

Thomas concurred. "Jane, only you can ensure that our family will become the noblest and richest family in the English realm in years to come. Why have you not conceived yet?"

The queen felt her sister squeeze her both hands. "I don't know."

Elizabeth made a report to the male members of their family. "Jane is healthy, and her courses come regularly every month. His Majesty bedded her every night in the summer and last month, but he has been too smitten with the Bassett prostitute since October."

Dorothy entered the conversation. "As well with two other whores."

Clenching his teeth in frustrated rage, Edward got out, "We need to think how to ensure that the king continues to sleep with Jane every night until she has a babe in her belly. But he is so lustful that his satisfaction seems to be dependent upon having a variety of women in bed."

His lips curved in a debauched grin, Thomas ventured, "Maybe I can seduce Anne Bassett to drive her away from the monarch. What do you think about it?"

Elizabeth opined, "You are the most charming and gallant man at court, Thomas."

"Oh my Lord…" Shocked bemusement in Dorothy's eyes mirrored Jane's.

"That might work," drawled Edward. "His Majesty must take a mistress whom we can control. My wife is beautiful enough to attract his attention, but she is pregnant now."

Elizabeth sighed. "It is a pity that Anne Stanhope cannot help us now." She veered her scornful gaze to Jane, who shifted closer to Dorothy on the bed. "Janie is not capable of bewitching the king and at least to make sure that he is faithful to her for a few months."

Thomas sneered. "The harlot married His French Majesty. What if she gives her second husband a son, while Jane remains childless? Being a famous philanderer, King François must be bedding the whore every night, if he is not on the battlefield."

A tense silence stretched between them, threatening to lengthen into a lifetime. The air was heavy with the shock they had experienced upon learning about Anne's second marriage.

Edward balled his hands into fists. "Damn Anne Boleyn! I hope she perishes in France together with her damned spouse and the French nation. We already have her daughter in one step from the throne, which is something that we cannot tolerate."

Jerking to her feet, Elizabeth speculated, "If the whore bears a son for the French ruler, King Henry will hate her more than ever. Yet, Jane will also find herself on the receiving end of his wrath, if she fails where the harlot succeeds, even though Anne's child is not a Tudor."

Edward concurred. "In the king's eyes, Anne's ability to bear sons will raze Jane's value to the ground, even though His Majesty will not forget about the whore's crimes."

Thomas smiled. "That is why Edward and I will work hard to safeguard our interests."

Rising to his feet, Edward barked, "We will discuss everything later."

Elizabeth agreed, "We should go."

As he stood up, Thomas addressed the queen, "Now try to rest, Jane. Pray every day – better, every hour and every minute – that the king's seed is growing inside of you."

Pausing near the door, Edward muttered, "You have done your job for today, sister."

Without a backward glance, Edward, Thomas, and Elizabeth quitted the chamber.

"Why are they so cruel?" Jane asked Dorothy, her eyes brimming with tears.

A veil of sadness blanketed Dorothy. "Once we were a friendly, loving family. But after our arrival at court, our brothers and Elizabeth morphed into wolves hungry for power and wealth."

The queen knew what they wanted more than anything else. "They think that we all have a common goal – to make a Seymour monarch succeed my husband."

Dorothy nodded. "Yes."

Tears trickled down Jane's cheeks, like rain on a window. "Henry… He is not as tender and caring as he used to be in the summer. I believed that I would be content with him."

Her sister brushed off the wetness from her face. "I am not sure that the king knows what love is. I am under the impression that he is more in love with himself than he has ever been with any woman. There are men whose greatest passion in life is for themselves."

"No!" Jane shook her head. "He still loves me!"

Dorothy eyed the queen with pity. "Jane, your head is full of illusions. You are clinging to the idea of king's love for you. Over time, you will understand the truth."

Queen Jane had a fatalistic air about her, as if she knew that the months of her queenship were numbered. The vision of her own death flickered through her brain, and she shuddered, as if mortality itself had embraced her. As if foreshadowing something bad, a sharp gust of wind hit the shutters which rattled violently. _God I entreat you to help me conceive a son to save myself and my family,_ Jane beseeched as she threw himself into Dorothy's arms and wept.

* * *

 ** _October 25, 1536, Château de Chamerolles, near Orléans, Loire Valley, France_**

King François paced back and forth before a window in the highest tower of Château de Chamerolles. Claude d'Annebault patiently waited at the far end of the small room that served as a vantage point to observe the valley and the forest surrounding it.

After climbing the stairs, the ruler threw open the wooden shutters and looked out. What he saw troubled him a lot: the Imperial troops had moved closer to Château de Chamerolles and now were stationed only about five miles from the palace. The weather was cold, but clear; there was no moisture in the atmosphere, no fog or haze, yet the sky was a gray pall.

François ran his fingers through his hair. "We should evacuate my queen now! I should have sent Anne away last week, when the Duchess d'Étampes and her many ladies, as well as Madame Dangereuse de Chamerolles and her family departed."

Claude d'Annebault concurred. "It is the best course of action, Your Majesty."

Turning to face his advisor, the ruler stared intently at the chessboard on his desk, loaded with papers. "Anne says that to wage war is like playing chess. I'm certain that our enemy has the same opinion and, hence, will endeavor to checkmate us, using my wife."

"We should take the queen to safety today."

"Claude, you must safeguard Anne." The ruler crossed to him, and administered a pat on his shoulder. "I cannot risk her life – she must live at any cost."

"I'll do what you order," Annebault consented eagerly.

François smiled wanly. "Thank you. You should both depart right now."

"Is Her Majesty ready? How long do we need to wait before her trunks are packed?"

A frown tucked between the monarch's brows. "Yesterday, I instructed Anne to prepare for departure. But I didn't think that the Spanish rodents would flock to our doorstep so quickly."

Annebault released a sigh. "Perhaps our optimism was a bit premature."

The king veered his gaze to his councilor. "Now it matters not. We will act in accordance our plan and defeat Charles in the Battle of Chamerolles. But Anne should be here."

"I'll take care of the queen." Bowing, his subject spun on his heels and left.

Sighing, King François trudged to a window. The Hapsburg standard was at that moment being unfurled in the wind, snapping and slapping at the air around it. A wave of hatred ripped through him, and it had to get expunged by means of his victory over his mortal adversary.

§§§

In the afternoon, the clouds dispersed, as if they were reluctant to witness the imminent battle. The grayness of the sky became exceedingly clear, and it was also intensified by the soot and ash, coming from chimneys warming houses near the château and nearby local villages.

In the French military camp, the monarch of France arrived at the army's rear. He was accompanied by his loyal councilors: Anne de Montmorency, Cardinal François de Tournon, and Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, who had recently joined them after his recovery.

Flanked by his commanders, the ruler stood in the circle of his soldiers. He proclaimed, "Comrades! Today we will fight against the invaders, whose intention is to destroy France and her people, their homes and loved ones. They will have to rip the hearts out of every Frenchmen, before we yield to their will and allow them to take our country from us and our children."

The vigilant men looked, as if they had stood at attention for hours. They then roared in unison, "France is our land! Death to the Spaniards and all other invaders!"

Waving his hand for silence, François continued, "I've been your king for years, in times of peace and war. Now we must stand together united against the external threat to prevent our enslavement to Spain." His voice rose in a crescendo of passionate conviction. "Come and let us fight together the battle of the Lord. For France and for our children! We shall win today!"

This speech had a resounding impact on everyone, further charging them with resilience.

"For France and our children!"

"Long Live King François!"

"Death to all the villainous invaders!"

"We shall expel them from our country!"

The throng parted the way for the king and his men, who walked along the front lines.

Turning his head to his advisors, François inquired, "Any news?"

Anne de Montmorency reported, "The Imperial troops are on the move towards us."

The ruler nodded. "I shall lead my cavalrymen to victory tonight."

Montmorency, Tournon, and Chabot exchanged smiles. Their liege lord's courage was as great and impressive as that of the Trojan hero Hector during the siege of Troy by the Greeks.

The knights bowed to their sovereign, who strolled across the camp, his generals trailing after him. Some high-ranking nobles, including Duke Claude de Guise, saluted, and the ruler returned the greetings enthusiastically, but his mind was otherwise occupied. François knew that now more than ever, he had to present a confident, imperial façade of a warrior king.

The royal subjects hurriedly prepared to encounter the enemy. Swords slid harshly over sharpening stones, and horses were armored for the charge with light plates, strung on tough fabric. Archers checked and rechecked their bows, fletching arrows and sharpening arrowheads.

As François mounted his black destrier, he asked his generals, "My wife and Claude left an hour ago. Have they slipped out of the city unnoticed? What do our spies say?"

"I think so, Your Majesty." Philippe de Chabot suppressed a grimace of distaste. After learning about his sovereign's wedding to Anne Boleyn, he had cursed for hours, for he had never felt even a shred of respect for the English whore. He had not accepted Anne as his queen.

Tournon chimed in, "They must be out of the city."

Montmorency opined, "Annebault will take care of the queen."

Relief washed over the monarch. "At least, Anne will be safe."

 _Anne must survive. The thought of her death is like a dagger to my heart,_ mused the King of France. In his mind's eye, Anne and mortality moved through the earthly world like things apart, as though they belonged to some other mode of existence. His dreams lingered on the new phase of his life – his matrimony with the most extraordinary woman he had ever met, and then he chased them away to concentrate. He would not have this life with Anne if the emperor had won.

François steered his stallion towards the men, who picked up their weapons and mounted.

§§§

"Signal the troops into position," the monarch said to Philippe de Chabot.

As the Valois royal standard rose high into the air, the effect on the army was astonishing. The eyes of every soldier blazed with the fire of determination and faith in their victory.

Everyone recited prayers to the Almighty. Then officers, captains, and sergeants started prowl the ranks, barking orders and arranging the divisions in the strongest formations possible.

Clad in his extravagant armor, François was at the head of the cavalry, with Chabot at his side. Montmorency jumped into the saddle as he readied himself for the charge onto the exposed wing of the Imperial army, which was stationed close to a lake near the château – Miroir d'eau.

Everyone froze in amazement when they saw Queen Anne's splendid litter, swathed in cloth of gold, and drawn by four white palfreys caparisoned in white damask.

The ruler felt a lump in his throat. "Why is she here?"

"I don't know, Your Majesty," mumbled Tournon. Montmorency and Chabot shrugged.

Postponing the attack, the ruler rode through the military camp. He brought the beast into a snorting standstill at the same time when the queen's litter stopped near the entrance to the castle. Claude d'Annebault dismounted and genuflected in front of his sovereign's horse.

"Why have you returned?" François demanded harshly.

His wife stepped onto the ground from the litter. "I don't want to leave."

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," muttered a bemused Annebault, as he rose to his feet.

The ruler berated, "Anne, you imperil your life."

The queen scoffed. "Don't tell me that the battlefield is not a place for a woman."

For a short time, Anne was petrified with fright. There was _someone in her belly_ whose life she treasured above all things, and maybe she should not have come to the camp on the eve of the battle. Avoiding her husband, she had not informed him about her condition yet. Nevertheless, Anne was tied to François by chains of war, and so her vehement desire to prove her courage outweighed her other feelings. _Nothing bad will happen to me if I stay here,_ she convinced herself.

Her husband parried, "I was not going to say this. Your safety is too important."

She made the sign of a cross in the air. "God save and protect Your Majesty! Lead your army to the greatest victory! Cripple the Spanish armies!"

"Anne…" François was overwhelmed with both awe and fear.

"I'll be waiting for you here," affirmed Anne with a reassuring smile.

A few moments later, Chabot appeared. "Your Majesty, they are attacking."

Then Cardinal de Tournon came to them. "Annebault and I will protect the queen." He was a man of God and could not fight, but he could help in the camp as much as he could.

Regret that he had to leave Anne colored the king's thoughts. Given her return to the Château, François would have left the command of his forces to Montmorency so that he could escort his wife out of danger on his own. However, his men would follow only him now.

Turning to the Marshal of France, the king enjoined, "Monty, I lead the cavalry charge at the Imperial protected wing. You will attack their exposed wing." His scrutiny slid to Annebault. "Claude, stay here and command the artillery. You will also be responsible for the queen's safety." He glanced at Chabot. "You will both be with me, Philippe and Your Eminence."

Casting an ambiguous glance at Anne, the ruler headed to the rear of the army. Torrents of tension, mingled with dread for his wife's fate, flowed through his veins like a rampant disease.

§§§

"Charge at them!" commanded King François in a majestic voice. "Charge!"

The monarch of France and half of his troops galloped across the fields, which stretched around the Château. Despite the horses' breakneck speed, they maintained a perfect formation not less than two miles in depth, which consisted of twelve thousand people.

Long lines of warriors in armet and morion helmets against the field indicated that ten thousand enemy riders were approaching fast. The opposing parties unsheathed their weapons. The birds, which had roosted in the nearby trees ablaze with the colors of autumn, took to the air.

"Archers!" the monarch's voice rose like the Creator's own fury. "Fire!"

François flipped down his visor and lifted his shield. The field, where he had chosen to engage the foe, was surrounded by the woods. Trees protected the flanks of the French.

"Ready to fire!" Guillaume du Bellay shouted from nearby.

The volleys of arrows were loosed, most of them finding their marks. The archers weren't encumbered with armor, for it would hamper their ability to move on their feet and fire rapidly. Therefore, the archers were protected by knights' shields, because they were all in the rear to be able to shoot over the heads of the enemy vanguard, executing the king's plan.

The shafts cut down quite many Imperial mercenaries. Horses bolted, and hundreds of soldiers were tossed from their saddles onto the ground. The surviving men raced on towards the French lines, brandishing their weapons above their heads or in front of themselves.

"Stop!" the ruler bellowed as he tightened the reins sharply.

The French cavalrymen all reined in their stallions, as if they were under some spell of a sorcerer. With a fluid movement, hundreds of archers ran ahead of their comrades: each of them drew an arrow and sent the flaming arrows towards the shocked enemy.

Annebault's voice was carried clearly by the crisp, cold air. "Artillery! Now!"

A moment later, the French artillery fired. Screams of the wounded and dying resounded pitifully. The Spanish horses toppled, men somersaulted, their momentum carrying their bodies into the fray. Another swarm of flaming arrows passed over the Imperial troops.

"Fire!" Annebault shrieked again. "Help our cavalry!"

Barrages of gunfire were launched on the Spanish warriors, many of whom were unhorsed and slid to the ground with a thump. The entirety of the Imperial party seemed simultaneously perplexed and frightened, for they had not anticipated such crafty tricks from their foe, whom they had defeated in Provence. Their befuddlement and the lack of action on their part resulted in more casualties, as the French archers and artillery promptly renewed their attacks.

As the fire started spreading in the Imperial ranks, someone shouted, "Contain it!"

"Attack!" shouted the Valois monarch while adjusting his burgonet. "For France!"

"For France!" repeated the French warriors.

"For King François!" roared Cardinal de Tournon, and others echoed him.

The whole formation charged into battle like men possessed by the deities of war. As both parties moved in bacchic mortality dances, the French steel met the Spanish and Italian steel with a deafening clang. The fight was very ferocious, but the French warriors did not perform any deadly slaughter, even though blood gushed in all directions, like fountains of wine. The battle din was so horrifying and loud that one would not have heard God thundering.

"Germans!" Emperor Charles exclaimed in Spanish. "How is that possible?"

The terrible rumble of the horses pounding the ground crossed the field. A multitude of warriors, bearing the standards of Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse, and John Frederick I, Elector of Saxony, arrived at the field in accordance with the Valois ruler's stratagem.

Plunging his sword into his opponent, King François apprised, "The emperor is here!" He would never have mistaken his mortal foe for anyone else. "Find him!"

 _I want to capture Charles._ The French king strained his eyesight, swiveling his head back and forth. He wielded his weapon in a flurry of blows, feasting wounds on his opponents. His blood heated with an unquenchable fire of his hatred for Charles, as François finally spotted the emperor, disguised as one of Spanish generals for the sake of concealing his identity.

The king's destrier was forcing its way through the crowd. The powerful thrusts of his sword made those who stood in his path fall dead or scatter. François noticed that Charles was panicking, his fighting style becoming more chaotic and his movements more strained.

"Now!" yelled Philippe de Chabot while retracing his sovereign's path.

The Imperial cavalry withdrew to the other side of the field. With startling suddenness and unexpectedness, their lines hit the traps. At first, only a few stallions stumbled, but that was enough to wreak havoc in their ranks. As more horses lost their footing and fell, shrieks of panic pierced the air, which was intensified by the French gunfire.

"Retreat!" Charles screamed in a high-pitched voice. "Retreat to the woods!"

François' boisterous laughter echoed over the battlefield. "Charles, I have a surprise for you!" he addressed his rival in Spanish. "Your exposed flank must already be destroyed!"

"No!" the Habsburg ruler deflected blows of the many opponents, who wanted to reach him. His bodyguards dispatched all of those men, keeping him safe. "That cannot be true!"

"We have outwitted you, Charles!" taunted his Valois rival in a high voice.

For a split second, all seemed to quieten down, as if the universe had gone still to listen to the exchange of the two rulers. Then the field resounded with noise, swords colliding and men shouting. The cries of the wounded were muffled by the bursts of artillery fire. During the battle, the Spanish artillery had not been used because of Montmorency's assault on their other wing.

Delivering killing blows here and there, the emperor instructed, "To the camp!"

Now being in full retreat, the Imperial forces were compelled to ride far closer to each other than they normally did. As they entered the adjacent pastures, some horses staggered, and others quickly followed. As the bulk of the surviving Imperial cavalry hit more traps, man after man tumbled out of their saddles, and the sickening sound of bones breaking rang out.

The French king's jeering voice boomed. "Dearest Spaniards, urge your horses into the illusory terrains, only to have them drop one leg into a hole." He guffawed. "That is so romantic! Don't you think so, Charles? Do you like our French eccentricity, my friend?"

To the scared foe, everything seemed surreal, as if an invisible wall had been thrown on various parts of the battlefield to paralyze them. Nobody had considered the surrounding terrains perilous until it was too late. Everyone was now escaping, like birds from the snares of fowlers.

"Charge after them!" Chabot ordered. He murdered a few Italian mercenaries, who got dangerously close to his liege lord. "Kill or capture them!"

"Protect the king!" Bellay dispatched a Spaniard who could stab his sovereign. He then commanded, "Take those who are entrapped prisoners!"

"Capture Charles!" shouted King François, who neared his bitter adversary. His sword slashed, sliced, and parried with amazing precision. "I want him unharmed!"

A panicked murmuring broke out among the Imperial men. An incensed Emperor Charles admitted in French, "François, you should watch over your whore of a wife!"

A colossal shock sprang through the Valois ruler. "Philippe, assume the command!" His mind set on finding Anne, he commenced making his way out of the fighting mass.

§§§

Oblivious to everything around him, King François flew on his horse across the fields, as if he were on a steeple-chase. Anne's fate and their future depended upon his speed. As he entered the French camp, he hopped down from the saddle, leaving his destrier riderless.

"Anne!" vociferated François. There was a desperate edge to his voice. "Anne!"

Several soldiers appeared, their faces abashed to see their liege lord here.

"Where is my queen?" demanded François as he neared them.

A lad stuttered, "Monsieur d'Annebault escorted the queen to Your Majesty's tent."

The monarch rushed through the camp, like a strong gush of gale. His heart thumped, as if endeavoring to pump thick oil of baleful presentiment through his veins. It seemed to him that the pillars of his reign rested upon his marriage to the very woman who did not want to be his wife. _Anne might despise me as a king and a man, but I want her alive more than any of my men_.

As he stormed into his own tent, a breathless François looked around. As his gaze found her, a scream clogged in his throat, awful and too big to choke down, yet too horrible to release.

His wife lay on the bed, her eyes wide, her visage tinctured with consternation. Three knights, wearing morions on their heads, froze near the bed, like menacing shadows. One of them lifted his sword, poised for the finishing strike, his lips stretching in an evil grin.

"The heretical Boleyn whore," hissed the queen's would-be murderer in Spanish.

"No!" cried the queen, her arms wrapped around her abdomen.

A horrified Anne cowered, expecting the penetration of steel into her body and then fatal oblivion, but no blow followed. The warrior, who had insulted and threatened her moments earlier, gurgled with blood and lay slain, a crimson lake pooling out of him onto the ground.

Her husband's figure in armor came into view. "Anne, get out of here!"

The King of France battled with the two other assassins. He spun his sword in his hand a couple of times, and then rained it down vehemently on one of his opponents. The man nearly sidestepped, but the ruler's blade sliced his shoulder and sent him careening backwards. As the other rival lunged at him, François moved to the right and feigned a movement to the left. The assassin swung his blade to deflect the blow when the monarch decapitated him.

Suddenly, the second assassin emerged next to the king, as if out of nowhere. Blood was flowing out of the wound on his shoulder, but he assembled the strength to ram his fist into the ruler's midsection. With a groan, a disoriented François staggered backwards.

The man unsheathed his dagger. "I'll murder you, French _parvenu_ , and then your harlot."

The small weapon flashed silver as the Spaniard raised it for the kill. Before he could swing it downward, a poniard murmured across his back. With a howl of pain, the knight swooped forward. A stream of blood trickled out of his mouth, and then he turned still.

Sprawled on the floor, the king looked up at his wife. "Anne! You have saved me!"

His queen was so pallid that she looked almost luminous in the tent's gloom. Her spouse's poniard, its hilt encrusted with the royal emblem of a salamander, was clasped in her hand. She had not complied with his order to escape, watching him fight against her almost murderers, and then the ruler seemed to have been on the brink of death, she had just acted on impulse.

"And so have you." She didn't recognize her own voice.

Having removed his burgonet, he climbed to his feet. "It is over. We are both alive."

Anne stared at the bloodied poniard with glassy eyes. A spear of terror cut through her to the bone. "I've never… taken a human life before…" She trailed off.

"It is all right." He took the dagger from her and put it on a nearby table.

Tears splashed onto her cheeks, and François hugged Anne tenderly. She went willingly into his hug, melting against him with a soft cry. He still wore his armor, but she didn't care, allowing him to support her fragile weight and letting the tears flow unchecked.

"Anne," he murmured, rocking her in his arms.

All of a sudden, his spouse went limp in the sanctuary of his embrace. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her chin sank to her chest, indicating that she had fainted. He carried her to the bed and gently laid her down, determined to go find his physician so as to examine her.

François observed Anne's chest rise and fall smoothly with every breath. His emotions were tangled and knotted, until torrents of relief inundated his whole being. A sense of something larger-than-life engulfed him, refreshing and enigmatic. _I feel as if I were Orpheus who reached Eurydice in the underworld, but, in contrast to him, I succeeded in bringing her back to life._

Anne de Montmorency's urgent shout invaded into his musings. "Victory! The emperor has retreated with his surviving men! His unprotected wing has been crushed!"

"Victory!" The scream of the Bailiff of Orléans, who owned Château de Chamerolles, proved that. The triumphant cries of the royal soldiers echoed all around like a million bells.

"Thanks be to God," whispered the ruler to himself with a cheerful smile.

Cardinal de Tournon slipped into the king's tent. As he saw the unconscious queen, he asked worriedly, "What happened, Your Majesty? Are you and your wife unscratched?"

The monarch turned to him. "Yes, we are. Take care of Anne until my doctor comes."

"Of course." Tournon eased himself into a chair near the bed.

Casting a warm glance at Anne, François walked out of the tent, for now she was safe. Although he had defeated the Imperial troops today, he had not vanquished them utterly. The ancient instinct of a warrior called to the monarch to brace himself for new confrontations.

* * *

 _I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave a review, for it will encourage me to continue writing._

 _King Henry is haunted by the memories of Anne Boleyn. He cannot forget her, despite having Anne Bassett as his chief mistress and other lovers. Born in 1520, Anne Bassett was very young, and her charms attracted the attention of the lustful English ruler, but in this AU, it happened in 1537 – two or three years earlier than in history. Jane Seymour is still not with child yet, and Henry is no longer excited with bedding his shy and virtuous wife, marital duties became an unfortunate necessity for the monarch to sire a male heir. The Seymour family were introduced in this chapter, and I wonder what you think of them._

 _In France, the Battle of Chamerolles results in France's victory over the invaders, but the war is far from over. King François leads the cavalry attack with fearless resolution, just as he did in history. He was called the Knight-King not without a reason, and even though he was not the best military commander of the time, he was a foolhardy and capable warrior. In this AU, François must learn from all of his past mistakes, including the Battle of Pavia, because he has to save France and to keep the country independent. Therefore, François is portrayed as a king who uses all of his knowledge and talents of a general for the liberation of his nation. Queen Anne has not told him yet about her condition, but at the end of the battle, she unexpectedly saves her husband's life._

 _I remind you that burgonet was a close-fitting 16th century helmet with cheek guards; it was the successor of the sallet. Armet was a late and perfected medieval helmet of many light parts closing neatly round the head by means of hinges following the contour of chin and neck. Morion was a type of open helmet originally from Castile (Spain), used from the beginning of 16th to early 17th centuries. Thus, Imperial soldiers wear armets and morions on their heads._

 _I hope that you like the battle described here. It took place near Château de Chamerolles, which you can find on the Internet as it still exists near the city of Orléans, and tourists can visit it._

 _Yours sincerely,  
Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	10. Chapter 9: A Spiritual Backbone

**Chapter 9: A Spiritual Backbone**

 ** _October 27, 1536, Château de Chamerolles, near Orléans, Loire Valley, France_**

Covered with green silk sheets, Queen Anne rested on a canopied bed, whose headboard was inlaid with carvings of tournaments. Sunlight danced across the glass casement windows which lined the king's bedchamber, intensifying the gleam of the gilded furniture. Two walls were draped in emerald silk, and the other two in paintings of the romance _'Lancelot du Lac'_.

"Ah," tumbled from Anne's lips as she turned to her side, her eyes closed.

King François stood near the bed. Two days had elapsed since the battle, during which his spouse had been sleeping, as if cradled in the hands of Hypnos'. He was transfixed by her lithe figure, concealed from him by the bedcovers, by her exotic features, with her dark eyes and long, sweeping lashes, her clearly penciled brows, and her rosy lips, parted slightly as she breathed.

"Anne," he murmured, his heart beating faster. "Why didn't you tell me about the baby?"

As the day progressed, the monarch returned to his rooms three times. Jean Fernel, the best royal physician at court, had said that the queen was so utterly exhausted from the constant worry and fear that she would sleep for a couple of days. When Anne awoke, the sunset tinted the palace's roof and towers in shades of mauve, giving her an inkling about the time of day.

Stretching her body across the sheets, a befuddled Anne surveyed her surroundings. As she noticed a doublet on a nearby coach, a sense of unease crept down her spine.

"Where am I?" she asked aloud, as though expecting someone to answer her.

A sound, as if a barely perceived whisper, sighed in the depths of the chamber. Light footsteps resounded in stillness, and then the King of France came into view.

"In my bedroom," answered François as he took a seat in a gilded chair by the bed.

Anne dragged a fortifying breath before speaking composedly, "Why am I here, Your Majesty? The last thing I remember is that we were in your camp."

"You fainted, and I carried you to the palace and then to my apartments. My physician examined you." He did not add that the doctor had apprised him of her condition.

His declaration let loose a deluge of terrifying remembrances with a force and freshness which could only be known to someone who had been on the brink of death but evaded it. Anne had been waiting in the royal tent, where she had been escorted by Claude d'Annebault. Despite her cold attitude to François, she had been worried about the very man whom she still refused to call her husband in her mind. The queen had prayed for France and her king during the battle.

Staying true to his word to safeguard her, Annebault had come to the queen several times during the battle. He had put a squad of guards near the king's tent, but the Imperial assassins had somehow sneaked in. Frightening visions whirled in Anne's head: several Spaniards anxious not to miss a single instant of what they had anticipated being her final agony, the mortal dread she had experienced not for herself but for her baby, and, finally, her salvation by the French ruler.

Gratitude inundated Anne, and now she beheld her husband with the gaze of a long-lost friend. "Your Majesty saved me, and I thank you for that. I owe you my life."

Her spouse was relieved to see the warmth in her expression. "You owe me nothing. As soon as I realized that you could be in danger, I left the battlefield and went to ensure that you were safe. I thank the Lord that I arrived in time before the worst could happen."

The king was shaken by the memory of that attempted regicide on his wife. The same unutterable despair that he had felt in those moments petrified him for a split second. His mental machinery ceased operating, if he imagined that the worm of ruin could break into the circle of his marital life. _I would have been absolutely bereft if Anne and our baby had died on that day._

She quizzed, "What is the outcome of the confrontation?"

A triumphant François stated, "We won the Battle of Chamerolles! The Imperial troops withdrew from the Loire Valley to Auvergne and southern provinces. Many of the emperor's men were not slaughtered but trapped or injured, eventually becoming our prisoners. However, about four thousand of our troops died in battle, but Carlos lost more than ten thousand men in total."

"That is a great result! Congratulations, Your Majesty!"

"Now I'm sure we will expel the enemy soon."

His wife crossed herself. "Let it be so, sire."

His confidence and joy were palpable. "In several months, the war will be over."

Her mind floated to their meeting in the tent. "Did you leave your army to check on me?"

The ruler smiled. "Yes, I did. Philippe de Chabot assumed the leadership."

A sense of incredulity enveloped her. "Really?"

"Yes, Anne. I do treasure your life."

"It is so unexpected that Your Majesty acted so."

Disbelief shadowed his visage. "Do you really think that I would have allowed someone to kill you? Do you really have such a low opinion of me?"

The queen had the decency to look ashamed. "No, I don't, sire. It is just that we are in a political marriage, so I did not expect any chivalry towards me on your part."

Injured by her candor, he impulsively spoke in a breathless rush. "I've been called the Knight-King for years. Everyone knows that I've always tried to avoid doing things which could be unworthy of one who aspires to be the best knight in Christendom."

François had spoken the truth, but his overweening manner blew away her apologetic mood. "It is not a sword, but a chivalrous heart that makes a true knight. Your Majesty is a valiant man on the battlefield, but you are not always gallant in interpersonal relations. As we are almost strangers to each other, I do not demand that you sacrifice yourself or anyone else for me."

Anne saw a wince of hurt flash across his face. _It is necessary to make the reality of our situation clear to him again,_ she decided. Yet, guilt was eating away at her like gall, corroding her insides. She felt herself like the most ungrateful creature, but she would not apologize to him.

His countenance evolved into the impenetrable wall, separating him from her chilliness. "I am not Henry Tudor. I do not have the habit of getting rid of my wives when I'm bored with them and desire to marry someone else. No woman has ever been imprisoned at my behest."

A twinge of regret went through her. "I should not have said that."

A sharp edge to his voice, the ruler castigated, "Actually, I cannot wrap my head around the truth which I know now. You returned to the camp, where you put yourself and the life of _our child_ in jeopardy. I must admit that it was too reckless of you to act so."

In silence full of trepidation, their gazes of steel intersected like hostile swords. His eyes gleamed with harsh disapproval, while she contemplated him with ire mingled with umbrage.

At last, the queen turned her head away to the window. The fading sunset split the gray clouds and lit the sky red for a moment before dying, coloring her whole world in blackness. The comprehension that her secret had already been divulged to the king was overwhelming in its solid force. _François knows that I'm expecting his baby, and he has power over me,_ Anne panicked.

The monarch emitted a grievous sigh. "You resolved to stay in Chamerolles to prove to everyone that you are my warrior queen who is aiding the Knight-King to save France." Another sigh followed. "You kept silent about your condition for weeks not to give me power over you. However, you are mistaken that I want to cause you any harm."

Her mouth was hanging open. "How have you guessed that, sire?"

"Perhaps I understand women better than other men do."

The dark eyes morphed into two pools of indignation that a woman feels for an unfaithful husband. "Of course, a philanderer is capable of predicting a woman's behavior pretty well."

His laughter reverberated throughout the room like a cry of a six-winged seraph. François climbed to his feet and settled on the bed next to his wife, who did not pull away this time.

The king issued a joke in a serious undertone. "It would have been perfect if these words were spoken out of jealousy. If a wife happens to be jealous in a marriage of convenience, it is like having all the happiness in the universe, but still being infelicitous."

An exasperated Anne parried, "I am feeling nothing of that sort!"

"True," he uttered with some harnessed emotion which he couldn't define. "I heard from my ambassador how you behaved when being jealous of Henry in public. I do not delude myself into thinking that you care for me." His wounded ego goaded him into adding, "I am not envious of Henry, and I am not eager to emulate his doubtful attainments in marital life."

The mention of Henry discomfited her. "I do not want to talk."

Her categorical statement cut through his heart like a hundred knives. "At the same time, Anne, I have to confess that a large part of me desires to increase my knowledge about your unique personality. No woman in the world is as sophisticated as you are, and if a man ever manages to peel away the layers of your character, he will become the cleverest scholar."

Abashed by his sincerity, the queen felt contrite for her earlier impoliteness towards him. "Your Majesty, I meant that I did not wish to discuss the King of England." She referred to her former husband in a formal way, for it helped her increase a distance between them.

A spark of joy flickered across his countenance. "I do not want to think about him either."

A sensation of protectiveness swept over him, and the monarch pulled his consort to himself. She surprised him by putting her head onto his shoulder, and he looped his arms around her. One of his hands slid to her stomach beneath the covers, stroking it tenderly.

Kissing the top of her head, the ruler whispered, "Anne, I'll always come to your rescue. You are my wife, so I am responsible for your life and wellbeing. Regardless of what happens to France and my throne, you have to live, especially now."

Anne blinked at him, as if he had just suggested doing an in-depth study of life origins on earth. "Your Majesty does not have any obligations towards me."

"You are wrong," protested François vehemently, his hand fondling her abdomen. "I've married three women out of necessity. I do not expect from you any affection. But I have a duty to you as your husband and the father of our child, and I shall never try to weasel out of it."

The marital restrictions were the very last thing she wished to hear. As she endeavored to extricate herself from his grasp, the king pressed her to himself tighter, yet gently. Still rubbing her belly, he buried his head into her hair, as though he were a weary warrior, whose life had been in upheaval for so long that now he was glad to have a moment of repose with his lady love.

Frozen in this position, François murmured, "When my physician told me about the baby, I felt as if I were flying without wings." A sigh spilled from his lips. "This year, I lost my eldest son, which nearly destroyed me. The tidings of your condition had a healing effect on me."

As he parted from her, Anne discerned vivid traces of profound grief, which were etched into his features. "I do commensurate with Your Majesty's loss."

His smile was sad. "Thank you, Anne."

Nodding at him, she voiced her concerns. "I swear that I want this child. But I'm afraid I will not be able to carry it to full term, given my history of unsuccessful pregnancies."

The monarch cupped her face and gazed into her eyes reverently. "Anne, I beg you not to think about the past that poisons you with fear and desolation. Do this for our baby, if not for me. I shall take care of you and the child, my best physicians will watch over you."

"One of the most painful things a woman can go through is a miscarriage. I promise to be careful to avoid it, providing the best self-care to help welcome a healthy baby." The thought that this child in her womb could die sent jolts of heartache through her bosom.

His thumbs caressed her cheeks. "Everything will be all right."

"What if it is a girl?" Words fled her mouth like scared deer.

His arms encircled her waist like the outer walls of a stronghold. "Anne, I know where your fears come from. I am not obsessed with sons, and I shall love any child you bear."

His wife measured him with a skeptical glance. "I just want it to be healthy."

"You are afraid to believe me. But, over time, you will see that I am not lying."

The queen's soul rejoiced like a gospel choir singing the praises to the Almighty. The revelation of her spouse's innermost thoughts about his departed son had revealed the arcane layers of his complex personality. His suffering indicated that his outward lordly raiment masked his deep, rich inner world. His affectionate attitude to her and their baby elated Anne, pulling her to François by invisible cords. _What does this all mean for me? He is not like Henry, is he?_

To diffuse the tension, François jested, "You cannot be the pregnant Goddess Minerva on the battlefield. Thus, you will join my court in Villers-Cotterêts as soon as possible."

His joke did not offend her. "It was foolhardy and foolish of me to return to Chamerolles. But I strove to continue being the symbol of our victory over the invaders."

He deposited a kiss on her forehead. "I admire your bravery, but I want you to be safe."

"You are of course right, sire."

The King of France removed his arms from her and rose from the bed. Therewithal, the queen felt empty and chill, yearning to be entangled in his embrace once more.

The depth of his scrutiny directed at the queen was immeasurable. "We are the most illustrious couple, Anne. We stand against the Habsburg Empire together. We wrestled against Hades and came to one another's rescue in time. Poets will compose ballads about our chivalry!"

Her fluted laughter exuded excitement and novelty, which François had not heard from his wife yet. It steamed to him like a marvelous fantasy discovered in a dream, bound to last for only a handful of precious moments before perishing in the troubled waters of reality. He laughed back, as if their current lives were as smooth as the surface of an ocean on a serene day.

"We will win!" cried an exhilarated Anne with a touch of pride. "Legends are like deep-rooted trees. They live on forever and flourish with every new generation. So, the legend of our victory over the mighty Holy Roman Emperor will be glorified in centuries to come."

"Smile more often and feel more confident, Anne." His mouth stretching in an exuberant grin, he affirmed, "I'm delighted that you conceived on our wedding night, and that my prediction came true. Pregnancy suits you: you are glowing like an exotic flower, and so is my heart."

Before she could chastise him for his conceited tendencies, the Valois monarch sauntered out of the chamber. The sound of his footsteps mimicked the drumbeat of Anne's heart.

The queen smiled slightly, staring at the closed door. Her eyes were dreamy with a vague, undefined happiness, for the ruler's astounding care for her melted her heart. His indifference to the baby's gender produced in her chest something like an actual flame, as if Anne had entered some profound transformation, and a new personality had perhaps been created in the process.

Anne looked out the window and noticed that nightfall was descending quickly. It was an ideal day for improving her marital relationship. However, she could not allow her guard down and her hopes up too high. _Matrimony, even if it is based on love by a miracle, is by no means joy, but agony. There can be no contentment in a royal marriage._ She hoped that François would spend all his time with his lovers after his return to court, leaving her without his attention.

* * *

 ** _November 15, 1539, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France_**

The gallery, which formed the principal ornament of the ground floor, was thronged with richly attired courtiers. Chief among them, not merely in rank, but for her magnificent stature and deportment, was Queen Anne of France, who had arrived at the court's current residence a week earlier and made her first public appearance after spending the first few days in seclusion.

"I'm glad to see all of you here," declared Anne in flawless French, with a brilliant smile. "You all know that our sovereign won the Battle of Chamerolles. We must all pray for him so that the omnipotent Lord helps him in his most sacred mission of France's salvation."

A murmur of approval rippled through the group. Regardless of their conflicted feelings over the queen, the nobles perused the lovely planes of Anne's swarthy face, their gazes lingering on her enigmatic dark eyes, with her night-kissed hair, cascading down her back to the waist.

Pivoting in unison with several ladies, the queen slowly glided through the corridor, as if she were a swan moving across the smooth surface of a pond. Anne admired the grand gallery, where walls were adorned with figures of goddesses and nymphs carved in oak, as well as several rows of caissons. The ceiling was decorated with salamanders, foliage, flowers, and fleurs-de-lis.

Anne, who looked particularly feminine these days, was in the full éclat of her exotic beauty. Her sumptuous habiliments – a grand gown of purple brocade, wrought with gold, with open, pendent sleeves and sable trimming on the low-cut square neckline – tastefully accentuated her royal status and bearing. Her stomacher of black silk was studded with diamonds, sapphires, and amethysts. The girdle, which consisted of precious stones, encircled her waist. Her oval-cut, diamond necklace and matching earrings created a shimmering halo of elegance about her.

As the queen and her ladies disappeared in the corridor, the crowd broke into whisperings.

"Anne Boleyn really became the Queen of France."

"She managed to wrap King François around her finger."

"That woman forced our sovereign to wed her."

"No, you are mistaken! His Majesty was not coerced into this marriage."

"Obviously, our liege lord made her his wife out of duty to France."

"We formed a useful Protestant alliance thanks to this union."

Most of the courtiers still struggled with the idea of having Anne on the French throne, even though they had grudgingly accepted it. Everyone was bewildered that the king had permitted his wife to worship her heresy in private, which had scandalized the Valois court.

The assemblage repeated what they had learned about the confrontation near Orléans.

"We have to thank Queen Anne for saving King François!"

"She was very courageous during the battle."

"They saved each other's lives like true heroes of France!"

"Her Majesty aided His Majesty to capture the emperor's brother."

A moment later, Clément Marot, a poet highly favored by the Valois siblings, appeared in the corridor. "I'll compose a multitude of poems about King François and Queen Anne. Their bravery must be immortalized through words and remembered by succeeding generations."

Duke Claude de Guise was one of the nobles in attendance. "Monsieur Marot, you are too sympathetic to heresy. I recommend that you curb your artistic interest in the blasphemous teachings of Luther and Calvin, or one day, the holy Inquisition will knock on your doors."

Marot threw a fulminating glance towards the duke. "Although I belong to the Catholic Church, I am also a poet and a humanist, Monsieur de Guise. A humanist without the knowledge of mankind's history, origin, culture, and new tendencies in the world is like a tree without roots."

Before the Duke of Guise could retort, Cardinal François de Tournon entered the gallery. As he approached the assemblage, everyone fell silent in anticipation, for they all knew that he supported the king's marriage to Queen Anne. Many had seen the cardinal smile cordially at the queen when they had disembarked from the litter upon their arrival at the palace.

In harsh accents, Cardinal de Tournon addressed Guise, "I must remind Your Grace that our country follows the course of religious tolerance. Intellectual works, where artists don't spread ideas of religious reform in our Church, are not interpreted as heresy."

Claude de Guise glared between the poet and the cardinal. "Of course, Your Eminence."

Sweeping his eyes over the throng, Tournon proclaimed, "You are all aware that I've worked hard to fight against all kinds of heresy at court and in France. Our nation will always be a Catholic one, but there are cases when His Majesty may make an exception for someone, just as he did in the queen's case. None of you has any right to question the king's decisions."

After the prelate's departure, a grave silence reigned in the gallery for quite some time. Then the courtiers began dispersing, their countenances strained and pensive.

Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, Duchess d'Étampes, stood at the far end of the gallery. Her sworn foe, the Queen of France, had just passed her, not sparing her a single glance. Her sister, Péronne de Pisseleu, was at her side, observing the grumpy royal paramour.

"This headache is awful," complained the king's mistress, as she touched her throbbing temples. "Since that whore's arrival, I cannot sleep at night, so I feel so bad."

A scared Péronne glanced around. "Be careful, sister."

Anne de Pisseleu ushered her into a nearby alcove, where they could converse quietly.

Balling her fists, the Duchess d'Étampes spluttered, "The mere sound of her name makes me feel sick. It also awakens in my breast a fresh agony of pain, for I fear so much that I might lose my beloved François. Especially if what my spy – one of her ladies – told me, is true."

Péronne connected the dots. "Do you mean the queen's rumored pregnancy?"

Her sister hissed, "Don't call that harlot a queen."

The other woman pointed out, "Anne, you must accept the reality."

Ignoring her insinuation, the duchess gritted out, "I was informed that François sent Anne Boleyn away from the Loire Valley to protect her and their child. Nothing has been announced yet, and she has been secretive regarding her condition, but her morning sickness proves it."

Péronne's penetrating gaze assessed her sister. "Are you really going to make shipwreck of Her Majesty's life for the sake of your obsession with our ruler?"

The heat of wrath creeping up to her cheeks, Anne de Pisseleu vowed, "I shall never allow that Boleyn witch to take my François from me. If she is with child, revenge will be part of my agenda, for I do not want her to be connected with him by such solid bonds."

Her sister spoke sagely. "Retaliation perpetuates the cycle of ire and fear. At the same time, the only way out of the labyrinth of suffering from jealousy is to let it go."

"I cannot," the duchess got out, her teeth clenched. "That English slattern humiliated me during my audience with her, and I shall never condone it. She cannot imagine what a dangerous enemy her sharp tongue earned for her. I shall make her regret that she came to France."

Péronne whitened as a terrible suspicion crept into her consciousness. "Anne, it would be high treason to do something against the baby."

"That is not what I'm planning. Fear not, sister: I know what I am doing."

"Don't dig your own grave," sighed Péronne.

Affronted, Anne de Pisseleu responded, "I will not act against her child, for it is fathered by François. I love him so wholeheartedly to ever harm anyone through whose veins the Valois blood is coursing. In the meantime, it does not mean that the babe's mother will be content."

"It is hopeless, I judge, from your speeches, to try and dissuade you from leaving Their Majesties alone and accepting the place which the king will choose for you in his life."

"Péronne, have you ever loved as deeply as I love François? I think not, or you would not have used such hackneyed words to describe what I should do in my situation."

"I'm sorry, but I do not think that your feelings for our liege lord are that strong."

The incensed duchess exploded, "I love François with all my soul and mind!"

Her sister groaned, "Why do you betray him with other men, then?"

Anne de Pisseleu narrowed her eyes. "Will you not keep my secrets?"

"I shall," the other lady assured with a sigh. "I love you, sister, and I do not want you to suffer." She sighed. "But I think it would have been better, if Louise de Savoy had never placed you in the king's path so that you could catch his eye. Our sovereign's mother despised Françoise de Foix so much that she resorted to many tricks so as to move her out of her son's life."

"Don't you dare say that!" the duchess riposted severely. "François is my greatest love and happiness! The passion we share will always thrive in our bodies and hearts!"

Swiveling, Anne de Pisseleu stared through a window out into the courtyard. As her gaze fell on the King of France's portrait that hung above a stunning loggia, a torrent of loathing for the rival surge through her. These days, her whole being was overwhelmed with the most pernicious sentiments towards the English slut, who had become the bane of her previously merry existence.

"François is only mine," the duchess swore. "Forever and ever."

The royal mistress hastened to retire to her quarters. Her sister followed her, praying that the envious woman would not commit some grave mistake that would shatter her life.

§§§

Queen Anne stood by a window in her apartments. Her art-loving soul was overflowing with sentimentality and awe at the sight of the sheer magnificence around her.

With an enlightened air about her, the monarch's wife articulated, "The main distinctions between styles of architecture depend on the methods of roofing a space such as a window, a door, or a space between pillars. The Greek and Roman architecture is distinguished by round arches, while the Gothic one is linked with pointed arches or gables."

Anne examined the courtyard that was framed by the palace's two long wings. She had never visited this château before, for it had been erected in 1527-1529. She admired the stunning façade, surmounted by a colonnade of Corinthian columns. The Ionic pillars supported a series of foliated consoles and a grand loggia, whose niches housed mythological statues. Above the loggia hung the portrait of King François, who wore the necklace of the Order of St. Michael.

Her gaze veered to the ruler's portrait. These days, François was heading south from the Loire Valley, pursuing the retreating foe. She nonetheless felt his powerful presence everywhere.

Anne eyed the grand ensemble with an artistic eye. "His Majesty brought to France the Italian style which was masterfully merged with the great French constructions. In all the palaces which were built or renovated after the king's accession all those years ago, the emphasis is made on symmetry, geometry, and proportion. The antiquity combines a timeless classic feeling with picturesqueness of expression, creating a link to the ancient architecture."

Françoise de Chabot approached her. "The French feeling is obvious in our architecture. Yet, the modern style is breathtaking, together with its orderly arrangements of columns, pilasters, lintels, and arches – it is more elegant than irregular profiles of old buildings."

The queen turned to the woman, whom she had appointed her _première dame d'honneur_. Ladies, representing the highest French nobility, were traditionally selected for this office. Anne liked the young Françoise de Longwy de Chabot, Dame de Pagny and de Mirebeau, who was Countess de Charny and Buzançois through her marriage to Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion.

"Indeed, Madame de Chabot," concurred Anne.

The other woman exclaimed, "His Majesty has achieved perfection!"

Gazing out, the queen dived into the discussion about the arts. "What we see in France is like spring before summer. The artists, whom His Majesty invited from Italy, mingled the best Italian traditions with the French spirit. Those who are employed at court work hard to create the national style, ushering the country into the summer of French culture."

The royal wife pivoted to face her ladies-in-waiting, who had all ceased embroidering to listen to their mistress. Now they were impressed by the queen's famed intelligence.

Anne regarded them with interest. They had all arrived at the palace from Fontainebleau after the court's relocation to the town of Villers-Cotterêts. Marguerite had written her about who she could take into her service, so Anne had followed her sister-in-law's advice.

In addition to Françoise de Longwy, her ladies included Jeanne d'Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, who was François and Marguerite's illegitimate half-sister. Marguerite insisted that Louise, Anne de Montmorency's sister, should serve the queen. Anne could not ignore the Guises and the House of Bourbon in order to keep potential adversaries close. As a result, Marie and Louise de Lorraine, offspring of Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, and Marie de Bourbon, a daughter of Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, were part of the queen's household.

Many of Anne's former English maids-of-honor had given false testimonies against her, and a shiver of alarm raced through her. Her French ladies seemed friendly and eager to please their queen, but naïveté was no longer her weakness. _When will one of them betray me? I must always watch my back lest someone serves my Catholic enemies or Anne de Pisseleu,_ she resolved.

Queen Anne dismissed them. "I'm tired and must rest for a while."

Curtseying to her, the women all climbed to their feet and quitted the room. Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, bobbed a curtsey, but halted near the door.

The queen issued a strict reprimand. "Madame, you have to obey your queen."

Françoise inquired, "Does Your Majesty need something?"

"No, thank you. You may leave."

Anne crossed to a gilded armchair, adorned with the Valois device. As she settled into it, she stretched out her hands to the fire that danced jocundly in the marble fireplace, decorated with salamanders. A tension-filled silence ensued, as if by mutual arrangement.

The countess broke the uncomfortable pause. "Our sovereign asked me to become your lady-in-waiting so as to keep you informed of all the undercurrent trends at court."

Grinning acrimoniously, Anne jeered, "The king is immensely generous to his queen, and I heartily thank him for that. I do not object to being served by his famous former mistress."

The queen behaved exactly as François had warned the countess in his summons. "With all due respect to Your Majesty, I have to say that you are obviously not indifferent to the matter. The stiffening of your shoulders and your barbs prove it."

This came too close to the mark. "A man is known by his deeds and conquests; a woman by her wit and manners. Your indecorous conduct might sully your courteous reputation."

The older woman replied levelly, "I am His Majesty's friend, although he terminated our relationship years ago. As I've always served him well and loyally, I have nothing to fear. As he wishes me to take care of you, I'll gladly comply with his order."

The woman's boldness was rather impressive, but anger with her husband overrode all of Anne's other feelings. "His distrust is offensive to me, and I'll not tolerate it."

Her tone suasive, Françoise explained everything at length. "My queen, I am not your enemy. Your husband's true intentions are far from being dishonorable." She stilled, letting the words sink in. "The king strives to keep you out of harm's way, for you have many enviers and foes at court. We do not even know what your ladies have on their minds."

Anne eyed the Countess de Châteaubriant, as if she were a rare painting. Françoise was a celebrated beauty in France, who had been at the very center of the court's brilliant life when teenaged Anne had lived in France with her father and her elder sister, Mary. Anne remembered how the monarch had paraded Françoise around his court, much to Queen Claude's chagrin.

The former maîtresse-en-titre had aged, but she remained exceedingly attractive. A tall and exquisitely proportioned creature, Françoise wore a fashionable gown of azure damask worked with silver, with loose hanging sleeves. From her marble neck, dangled a cordeliere – a necklace imitated from the cord worn by Franciscan friars, which displayed the Foix coat of arms. Her countenance was luxuriously delicate, her large eyes of a tender blue. Her long, blonde locks were contained by a French hood studded with gems. _Her noble features are so lovely that I cannot understand why François chose the depraved Anne de Pisseleu over her_ , wondered the queen _._

She seemed to be sincere, so Anne quizzed, "Does the king really care about me?"

Françoise smiled at her heartily. "Of course, he does. You are his wife, whom he wants to be hale and hearty. He also wishes to ensure the child's safety."

The queen released a sigh. "Ah, any ruler wants another male heir."

The countess attempted to illuminate the flaw in the queen's reasoning. "Please, pardon me for speaking out of turn. Years ago, I had the privilege of being our liege lord's lady, and he made me extremely happy. I can attest to the fact that he has never been unkind to me, although in early youth, his hot blood prompted him to break many hearts."

"What are you telling me this, Madame?"

Françoise took a direct, but polite, approach. "You seem to have the wrong understanding of your spouse. François de Valois is incapable of perpetuating atrocities towards women. He has a mellow temper, although he might be deadly in politics." After a pause, she continued, "He has never been obsessed with male heirs. You might remember that he was happy when Queen Claude gave him two daughters before his first son, the late Dauphin François, was born. Unfortunately, both girls died in childhood, while his eldest son passed away several months earlier."

Both women crossed themselves before chorusing, "God rest their souls."

Suddenly, Mary Boleyn's cries after her abandonment by the Valois monarch resounded through Anne's consciousness, like claps of thunder. The pitiless reality reinforced itself, burning away the fantasies of the honorable King François. _The soul of a ruler nests itself in the realm of petty conceits, underhanded deceits, and covert meannesses, and François is not an exception._

"His Majesty cares for his loved ones." With a sibylline smile, the countess ended with, "In adolescence, he dreamed of marrying his true love, but he has not found her yet."

An agitated Anne failed to decode the other woman's hint, then switched to another topic. "Can you organize my meeting with the king's children?"

"Of course, Your Majesty. When do you wish it to take place?"

"In a few days, Madame. Just not today, for I'm too tired."

Françoise read her mind like an open book. There was one more thing she needed to say on the matter. "Your husband is a good man, and I pray that one day you will see it."

The queen did not berate the lady. "Thank you for your consideration."

After the older woman had vacated the room, Anne sat in silence. Her gaze traversed the bedroom, dominated by a spacious bed, whose canopy of cloth of gold was supported by massive pillars of mahogany. Pieces of gilded furniture were all ornamented with leaves of acanthus and flowers. A cassone, which stood near the bed, added to the elegant Italian interior. The stunning ceiling and the walls were frescoed with scenes from the life of the Goddess Aphrodite.

All at once, in the feverish dreaming that ruled her thoughts, the King of France seemed the God Hephaestus, emerging from a vision of mists and destined to rescue her from death and misery. Anne reminisced about how her husband had held her in his arms on their wedding night. _I did not believe that we would create this baby, but it happened,_ she mused with a smile.

The queen cut the thread of these pleasant memories by wielding a hatchet of reality towards them. Despite all his assurances, one day, the King of France would probably no longer need her, and then Anne would have to fight against him to save her marriage not for herself, but for her baby with François, for the tiny soul in her belly was a Valois prince or princess. However, Anne could not forget her recent conversation with the Countess de Châteaubriant. Part of her longed to believe the woman, but the other one leered at her fantasies that her second husband may be very different from the narcissistic and tyrannical Henry. At present, only love for the queen's unborn child and for her dear Elizabeth was real, sustaining Anne like her only spiritual backbone.

* * *

 _I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave a review, for your reviews always encourage me to continue writing._

 _Now François is aware of Anne's condition; his doctor told him about it after he had examined his wife. As most of you expected, he begrudged Anne for keeping her pregnancy secret during the many weeks of her stay at Château de Chamerolles. When François spoke about his son's death, Anne could see a glimpse of her husband's inner world, but then she pushes him away again. François sends his consort to his court for her safety and for their child's safety._

 _At present, the Valois court resides in the town of Villers-Cotterêts, in Picardy, which is located far enough from the Loire Valley and the battlefield. The courtiers have conflicted feelings over their new queen, but they have to accept her status. Anne de Pisseleu is angry to see Queen Anne at court, and she has a nickname for her rival – the English slattern or slut. Some of the queen's new ladies-in-waiting and the king's former mistress – Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant – make their first appearance. I wonder what you think about the Countess de Châteaubriant who will often appear in later chapters. Françoise is right that the court is full of Anne's enemies, but I cannot say more._

 _Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant was the maîtresse-en-titre of King François for a decade (between 1518 and 1528). Unlike Anne de Piselleu, Françoise had no political influence, only managing to persuade the king not to disgrace her brother after his defeat at the Battle of Bicocca in 1522. After his return from the Spanish captivity, the king became smitten with Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, and his affair with Françoise ended. However, the monarch and his former mistress remained friends, and they frequently exchanged letters; François visited Châteaubriant many times. Although in history Françoise de Fox died in 1537, she will have a longer life in this AU._

 _I hope you are interested enough to google Château de Villers-Cotterêts. This magnificent monument of the Renaissance architecture was built by King François, and nowadays many tourists visit it._

 _In ancient Greek mythology, Hephaestus_ _is the Greek god of blacksmiths, carpenters, craftsmen, artisans, sculptors, metallurgy, fire, and volcanoes. Aphrodite is considered his wife, but she is said to have had an affair with Ares, the god of war, despite being married to Hephaestus._

 _Yours sincerely,  
Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	11. Chapter 10: Unwelcome News

**Chapter 10: Unwelcome News**

 ** _December 2, 1536, Greenwich Palace, Greenwich, near London,_** ** _England_**

"Fetch the French ambassador!" shouted King Henry, his expression strained. His voice was so loud that the ceiling of the great hall could shake. "I must hear news from France!"

The assemblage of the nobles quieted down, as if they had suddenly fallen asleep. One of the grooms raced out of the room to comply with the royal order.

Attired in a red satin doublet ornamented with rubies, as well as matching hose and toque, the King of England was seated upon a massive, ornately carved throne beneath a canopy of crimson velvet, embroidered with the Tudor arms. Queen Jane occupied the place to his left. The Seymour family clustered a small distance from the thrones. The ruler's eldest daughter, Lady Mary Tudor, stood together with the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, close to the Seymours.

Many English courtiers, including Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, and Sir Francis Bryan, were not present. The royal court had relocated from Whitehall to Greenwich only a couple of days ago; some nobles would arrive here right before Christmastide.

The herald cried, "Antoine de Castelnau, the French ambassador to England."

All the heads turned towards the entrance to the chamber.

Antoine de Castelnau, Bishop of Tarbes, was an experienced diplomat. Nevertheless, he often failed to control his fear when facing the English monarch, whose temper could flare like a tinder from a candle. Since the news of King François' marriage to Anne Boleyn had reached English soil, the Tudor temper was volcanic almost every day, and Castelnau was afraid that one day, the ruler would send him to the block, in spite of him being a foreign diplomat.

His expression impenetrable, Castelnau sauntered across with a confident gait. Stopping in front of the thrones, he swept a deep bow, displaying his French gallantry.

"Monsieur de Castelnau," commenced King Henry in accented French. "I trust that you regularly communicate with François. What tidings do you bring?"

Castelnau dithered as to in which language to respond. During their latest audiences, Henry had compelled the French ambassador to speak English, perhaps to demonstrate his lack of respect to France. The English nobility were taught Latin, Greek, and French if not other European languages, so the ruler could not wish to hide their talk from the courtiers.

The monarch gauged the man's thoughts. "Let's speak in French."

"As Your Majesty wishes." Castelnau narrated the story that everyone was already aware of. "King François won the Battle of Chamerolles. The invaders suffered heavy casualties, and many were taken prisoner, but Emperor Carlos escaped. Archduke Ferdinand, King of Hungary and Bohemia and the emperor's younger brother, is my master's captive."

Henry supplemented, "And the Turks invaded the Holy Roman Empire."

"Indeed, sire," confirmed the ambassador.

There was something ominous in the silence that now prevailed.

Most courtiers comprehended the discourse and looked tense with curious anticipation. Those who did not know the language were confused; whisperings arose among them.

Henry eyed the ambassador from the country ruled by his worst enemy. A middle-aged man with green eyes and head full of grizzled hair, Antoine de Castelnau was not handsome, but he had a strong and smart countenance. Yet, something like a shadow lay upon the man's face, as if he were working hard to suppress his fright, which gladdened the ruler.

The king bombarded the other man with questions. "Has the emperor started negotiating his brother's release? Where are the Imperial armies now? What are the French troops doing?"

"I apologize, but these things are known only to my sovereign's inner circle."

"Will François win the next battle?" The ruler's voice was harsh.

Castelnau saw that the Tudor monarch wanted France to be conquered by the Habsburgs. "The entire French nation is praying that the invaders are expelled. My liege lord, King François, is correct that God is upon our side, and we all support him."

Henry smiled ambiguously. "Perhaps you are making a mistake, Your Excellency."

The other man blinked. "What does Your Majesty mean?"

Spiteful words slipped out of the ruler's mouth. "France will be more prosperous under Carlos von Habsburg's rule than under that of François de Valois. My hope is that a day will come when the emperor's name will be as much honored in France as it is now execrated."

Those who knew the French tongue gasped in startlement; others also felt the palpable tension in the air. The king's declaration displayed his outright loathing of both the Valois dynasty and France, bordering on the open proclamation of his enmity towards François.

A man of amicable disposition, Castelnau could not suppress his rage. "The emperor will not subjugate my homeland!"

The King of England was barely holding onto his temper. "You may believe that François is the best choice to rule your country. However, his reign has been besmirched by his captivity at Pavia and the current Spanish invasion of France. The above makes him _the most incompetent Valois king_ , as Spaniards and their allies rightly assess his weak personality."

With an air of the utmost superiority about him, King Henry further defamed his French counterpart. "François has long been labeled the most gallant and most eccentric personage of the most gallant and eccentric court in Christendom. My opinion is that your sovereign's prodigality is too excessive, and his audacity in affairs unparalleled." He guffawed vehemently. "I wonder what would befall the French realm if François continued exhausting his treasury by the immense sums he has always lavished upon his numerous mistresses and favorites."

Castelnau gritted out, "I'll avouch to the contrary, Your Majesty. King François is loved by his subjects who trust him to lead them to triumph. The Valois court is rightly considered the most magnificent and enlightened one in the entirety of Christendom." His baritone rose to a crescendo of indignation. "Almost every monarch has mistresses. And my king is not the one who resorted to the most extraordinary stratagems so as to conduct his amours."

Henry bounced to his feet. "What did you say?" he snarled, this time in English.

Switching to English, the diplomat counterattacked politely. "If Your Majesty wants me to repeat it in your native tongue, your request will be my command."

"How dare you confront me?!" The ruler's voice was a hissing whisper that nevertheless carried throughout the chamber. "I'll punish you for speaking out of turn."

Castelnau blanched. "I'm a foreign ambassador."

"Lord Hertford!" called the king. "I made you an earl, so serve me well now!"

Jane's troubled gaze darted between her brother and husband.

Edward Seymour approached and bowed. "I shall do anything for Your Majesty."

"Silence!" barked Henry as he stepped forward to him.

Unexpectedly, the enraged monarch ripped Hertford's sword from the scabbard and then nearly pounced at the hapless ambassador. Grabbing Castelnau's shoulder, Henry brought the blade to the man's throat while glaring into his eyes. In these moments, Henry exuded murderous hatred, and his countenance contorted into an expression of abhorrence.

This drew gasps of consternation all around. Then stunned silence ensued, every pair of eyes fixed upon the king and the mistreated diplomat. A horrified Jane shot to her feet, but Edward put a restrictive hand onto her shoulder before she could walk to her spouse.

"You are a blasted Frenchman," pronounced the ruler between set teeth. "I'm dreaming that your master will lose his throne to the House of Habsburg."

"My liege lord will win the war!" Calmness veiled the ambassador's face, as if no sword were pressed to his neck. "Every adversary will be captured, killed, or expelled. My countrymen will never surrender to any invader, whether they are Spanish, English, or Italian."

Henry hissed, "François should not be the King of France. In 1328, Charles IV of France died without any male issue, so the throne should have passed to Edward III of England, Isabella of France's eldest son. Thus, I have the valid claim for the French throne."

The squabble was now happening in English. Everyone listened to the flagrant exchange.

A surge of patriotism went through Castelnau, making him bolder. "No, sire! France is our land, and no one will take it from us! King François is our only rightful sovereign!"

Henry ground out, "In the future, I'll lead my army into battle. Then François and his Boleyn whore will burn in hell together with the whole Valois family."

The blade scratched the diplomat's skin, and droplets of blood smeared his white collar. With the intention to land a blow to the English king's inflated ego, he exclaimed, "My master's family will become bigger soon! _Queen_ Anne will give birth to a little Valois!"

Castelnau spoke so loudly that everyone heard it. This elicited murmurings and sighs of astonishment from the courtiers. Their gazes oscillated between Henry and his consort, for they all suspected that the monarch was growing weary of his wife's failure to conceive.

"What?" muttered the king's pallid wife, her eyes wide. Her shaking legs gave way, and she slumped back into her throne, averting her eyes from her relatives' glares.

King Henry was still threatening Antoine de Castelnau with Edward's sword. A shaft of shock rendered him speechless and motionless, and his grip on the blade loosened.

A sense of wonder enveloped Henry. "That is not possible!"

Castelnau audaciously reiterated, "King François' spouse is with child."

A grave silence reigned, breathing with unspoken amazement and tense anticipation.

The ruler blanched, and then telltale crimson color suffused his visage. His brain was laboring to process the ghastly information, but his mind was frozen, blocking anything from the now to enter. Once awareness set in, his universe flipped in a fraction of a second, and his blood turned exceedingly thick with the deadly poison of his jealousy, like oil of vitriol in vapor.

Thomas Cromwell, who stood next to Richard Rich, was paler than the monarch. It was not in his interests if Anne gave birth to a healthy son by the French king.

"You are lying to me, you French earthworm!" bellowed the king, simultaneously shaken and bemused, his lordly bearing somewhat diminished.

Castelnau enjoyed the king's torments. "It is the truth, sire."

Slowly, King Henry released the ambassador. Staggering backwards, he dragged himself towards the exit and then stormed out, as though his whole life had just been ruined.

A hush in the great hall deepened. At this moment, it was a different silence, like the one which usually preceded the most tragic acts in the history of mankind.

Antoine de Castelnau scurried out of the chamber. He had never been fond of the brutal English ruler, but during their confrontation, his dislike for the man had grown in line with Henry's disdain for his sovereign. _If only King François recalled me back home_. _It is becoming more and more dreadful and too risky to navigate the perils at the Tudor court._

§§§

Swooning in relief, the French ambassador hastened through the hallways towards his quarters. He was approached by Eustace Chapuys, the Imperial ambassador to England.

Antoine de Castelnau paused reluctantly. "How can I assist you?"

Chapuys forced a smile. "If you have a moment."

They spoke in French that was the language of diplomats at the time.

Castelnau's gaze gleamed with a hostile light, like the spears of foes in sunlight. Since the French occupation and annexation of Duchy of Savoy in 1536, Chapuys' aversion towards the House of Valois and everything French had magnified to an extreme degree, for he was a Savoyard by birth. The two men avoided each other like a pestilence. If they met by accident in a corridor or during official receptions, the French ambassador greeted the other man stiffly, with shallow bows, and spoke to him in an arctic tone, while Chapuys kept a thin veneer of politeness.

"What do you want?" Castelnau no longer addressed Chapuys as 'Your Eminence".

The Imperial ambassador jeered, "Where is your famed French courtesy? Your king is famous for his majestic deportment, and so are the gallants of his court. Perhaps the magnificence of the French court is exaggerated, which might explain your lapse of manners."

A look of disdain splashed across Castelnau's features. "Your country has invaded mine. Your bellicose master killed thousands of my countrymen. I hate every Spaniard!"

"It was not my decision to attack France."

"It matters not," snapped Antoine de Castelnau before pivoting to leave.

"Your king married that Boleyn slut," growled Eustace Chapuys.

Spinning around, his French colleague spewed with abject contempt, "Every sane person in the world knows that _Queen_ Anne is not guilty of adultery, incest, and high treason. She has been falsely accused by Thomas Cromwell and her other enemies, just as your master has leveled false allegation of Queen Eleanor's murder towards my sovereign."

Chapuys' eyes grew wide with astonishment. "You are a devout Catholic, Castelnau! Do you mean to say that you acknowledge the Concubine as the King of France's wife?"

"Yes," Castelnau collaborated. "Chapuys, you are an ostentatiously religious man. You must know that sacramental marriage is indissoluble. Queen Anne and King François were wed over three months ago, so every Catholic must consider their marriage valid and legitimate."

A sense of inextinguishable hatred rushed through the Imperial ambassador. "The harlot bewitched King Henry and drove him from the Bishop of Rome. She poisoned the sainted Queen Catherine and persecuted the poor Princess Mary. The whore also betrayed His Majesty with many men, even her own brother; perhaps the brat, Elizabeth, is not the king's."

The French diplomat refuted all the allegations. "These are nothing but rumors spread by villains such as yourself. We are both aware that _Queen_ Anne is innocent, and that she has never betrayed King Henry." He made a special emphasis on the word 'queen', although he referred not to Anne's queenship in England, but to her undoubted royal status in France.

Instinctive rage reared in Chapuys. "I see that the Concubine put a spell on all the French who now call her the savior of France and King François. Unfortunately, Satan must have spared her, and she lured another monarch into matrimony through witchcraft."

"If someone has so much hatred in their heart, they cannot enjoy life to the fullest. You are just a superstitious idiot, if you believe in sorcery, but I think you are pretending."

Antoine de Castelnau spun on his heels and stomped away towards his apartments.

"Damn your king," cursed Eustace Chapuys, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Damn the Concubine and the French! I wish my master could destroy them all."

On the way to his quarters, the Imperial ambassador was overwhelmed with the burning desire to get his claws on the Boleyn demoness. Due to Catherine of Aragon's dethronement by Anne, his hatred for her was so deep and so intense that he sought her demise on every occasion. _Gracious Lord, help His Imperial Majesty crush the French forces. Aid him to bring down his Valois archenemy and let the Boleyn whore die at the stake, where she belongs as a heretic._

§§§

In the meantime, Queen Jane knelt at her _prie dieu_ in her bedroom. After dismissing her ladies, including her kind younger sister, Dorothy, only Mary Tudor remained in the room.

Jane requested, "We need more light, Lady Mary."

The bleak winter sun was setting above the River Thames, and in the east, the shadows of twilight were advancing. The queen's quarters were nearly dark, and only a huge bed, draped in dazzling white silk, glowed like a white halo. The floor, walls, and ceiling were a dark colored wood that matched the massive, dark mahogany furniture and the overall austere decor.

"Of course, Your Majesty." Her stepdaughter lit several silver candelabra.

"Pray with me," requested the queen.

Nodding her affirmative, Mary knelt at another _prie dieu_ beside Jane _._ After her return to court, the two women had befriended each other. Mary was grateful to her stepmother for Jane's role in her reconciliation with her previously estranged father. They often spent time together, sewing clothes for the poor and praying in Latin, just as good Catholics should do.

Each of them was in rather a precarious situation. Jane's relatives, save Dorothy, blamed her for the inability to conceive. Mary witnessed it on a regular basis, which irked her a lot, so she supported her stepmother, who in turn worked hard to further heal the still existing rift between the king and his eldest daughter. Together with Dorothy, they frequently discussed the monotony, sordidness, and inadequacy of typical aristocratic marriages, wondering why most spouses did not enjoy not only harmony, but even basic understanding in their relationships.

At this moment, Jane and Mary sought relief from troubles of life in prayer. Their heads bowed low, they chanted several psalms and then _the Pater Noster_ in Latin.

Jane's prayers shifted to her personal situation, her soft voice flowing through the room, like a gentle waterfall. She was so full of sorrow and fright that she had difficulty pronouncing the prayers she knew well. A tremble of pain cascaded down her back at the thought of being set aside by the king, who already neglected her, lest she failed to give him a son.

 _Blessed Virgin Mary, you were graced by the Almighty with the privilege of bearing our Divine Savior. God acted upon you in the first moment of the baby's conception, keeping you immaculate. Your life was blessed with conceiving Jesus and seeing him grow from infancy into his adult years of preaching the true religion. Please intercede before the Lord, that I, His loyal child Jane, may conceive a son for England – a son who will prevent civil war and bloodshed._

Crossing herself, Jane sprang to her feet, pale with emotion. "God, I beseech you to help me!" She plodded over to her bed and seated herself on the edge. "Only He can save me."

Mary climbed to her feet and crossed to the bed. She settled herself in a chair, where her mother had often sat by the hearth while sewing clothes for the downtrodden or shirts for the monarch. The armrests were decorated with the Tudor rose and an ornately worked pomegranate – Catherine of Aragon's symbol, while the chair's back was adorned with the profile portrait of Queen Isabella of Castile. A week earlier, many things had been delivered from Kimbolton Castle, where the disgraced former queen had breathed her last, and now Mary owned them.

Assurances poured out of Mary's mouth. "Your Majesty, after my mother's death, you are the king's true wife. Soon God will bless your marriage with a son."

As soon as the words left her lips, Mary felt a stab of guilt in her chest. She did not wish her father to have more children with any woman, for they would all become her rival claimants for the English throne. Although she had signed the Oath of Supremacy and acknowledged her illegitimacy, she still viewed herself the rightful heir to the crown. _My father can proclaim Elizabeth his heir, but the people of England love me and consider her a bastard._

Despair was etched into her countenance as Jane supplied, "Every day, I beseech the Lord to give me a child. I do not know why I have not conceived yet."

"Calm down," soothed Mary, her voice compassionate. "You have been married only for six months. You need to wait for some time and continue praying."

The queen's train of thought meandered to Castelnau's announcement. "Anne Boleyn has been married to King François only for four months. She is already with child!"

A surge of hatred deeper than a bottomless abyss rushed through Mary Tudor. The fervor of her scorching desire to see Anne dead squeezed her hands into tight fists. "That Boleyn harlot deserves the most gruesome end possible. I rejoiced when she was arrested, stood a fair trial, and was condemned to die for her crimes. I would gladly have brought a torch to her pyre myself." She raised her hands in frustration. "But she escaped her death."

Jane winced at the metallic sound of her voice, laced with visceral loathing. "Lady Mary, I understand your feelings towards the very woman who usurped your mother's throne and place in your father's heart. Yet, I want to give you my advice, if you wish to accept it."

Mary let out a small smile. "I'm always eager to talk to you."

The queen verbalized her thoughts. "If you truly want to improve your life, you have to travel lightly. That is, you must learn to let go of detrimental emotions such as rage and hatred. It is going to be difficult for you, if not impossible. But otherwise, you will not find peace."

As arrows of truth shot through her, Mary felt deafened by the agitated rush of her own blood. With the utterance of her stepmother's verdict, a terrible comprehension dawned upon her. She had been entrapped into the most horrible fate: she was gradually being strangled by the chains of her bastard status that was fixed by the laws enacted by the king and Parliament at the royal behest, and there was nothing she could do to liberate herself from them.

Jumping to her feet like a tigress, Catherine of Aragon's daughter paced to and fro. Her feelings alternated between deep anguish, unutterable despair, and impotent fury. But above all of her destructive emotions was the sense of ignominy and of intense hatred towards the villainess who had caused her departed mother and her so much harm. That unholy feeling welled up like a stream of fire in the young woman's breast, extinguishing all other emotions but thirst for revenge. _I should not blame the king for my current predicament – only the whore is at fault._

Her features disfigured with anger, Mary bared her heart. "It must be immoral of me to say such things, for I am a devout Catholic. But I want the Boleyn whore a head shorter or burned. Her viciousness wrecked my country and my beloved mother's life, and it also caused irreparable damage to me. It is no wonder that I crave her punished, is it?"

Queen Jane eyed Mary Tudor with admiration and sympathy. A graceful, yet not tall, woman, just as her mother had been in youth, Mary had high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and hazel eyes, smart and doleful. It was a beautiful face, but there was a halo of dejection about it, which was seldom found in so youthful a countenance. Her gown of black and bronze velvet, trimmed with gold, stressed her feminine curves in an appealing way, despite being modestly cut. Mary's long, red-gold Tudor hair was confined by a Spanish hood, studded with diamonds.

Jane empathized with her sufferings. "I understand you, Lady Mary."

Her stepdaughter stomped from the door to the bed, then crossed the chamber once more. "The harlot is no longer with my father, who cast her out of the English realm. Yet, the country remains a heretic land, and we are forced to worship the king as the spiritual leader of the nation." A desperate edge to her voice, she spluttered, "The witch's spell has not been removed from His Majesty completely. My father is unwilling to restore England to the flock of Rome, not caring that his subjects will be kept away from Holy Father's table in the afterlife."

Being a Catholic herself, Jane concurred. "For a short time after our wedding, I hoped to guide His Majesty back to Catholicism, but I've failed. Every time I mention the religious matters or anything political in his presence, he becomes so incensed that all I want is to run away from him. He says that my only duty is to birth a Tudor prince who will carry on his legacy."

Mary stopped near the chair, which she had occupied before, and tumbled into it. "At least, you have tried. God bless you for your wish to win the kingdom back for Rome."

The queen murmured, "I fear we cannot stop the reformation in England."

Once more, the bastardized princess exuded sheer contempt, causing Jane to flinch. "It is the fault of the Boleyn sorceress! Her spell over my father is too strong, but I shall pray harder that God leads England back to the true faith. A few months earlier, the harlot used her witchcraft again, and her marriage to the King of France and her new baby are the result of it."

Jane saw that antagonism billowed up inside of Mary Tudor, threatening to crush all other good sentiments. Despite her affection for the girl, Mary's religious fervor and her fanatical scorn for Anne sometimes left her discomfited. _Queen Catherine would have been upset to see her only child so bitter. Maybe I should attempt to persuade the king to find a husband for Mary._

Unable to contain her nervousness, Mary rose to her feet and resumed pacing. "My sister, Elizabeth, is considered the king's heir, according to the current English law. It is unbelievable that my father overlooked her mother's sins and had my half-sister declared legitimate by Letters Patent, which was how his illegitimate ancestors were legitimized. This proves that the harlot bewitched him into doing her bidding before her departure to France."

The queen did not concur, but she didn't voice it. "I spoke to my husband about your reinstatement to the line of succession. However, he always turns berserk with rage."

Stopping near a window, Mary looked out. In the courtyard, the buildings lay so white and silent in the snow of the first December day. Yesterday, the first snow had fallen from the steel-gray sky, and now everything was enveloped in an icy mantle. The royal gardens were knee deep with snow, and the tree branches bent to the earth with their heavy white burden.

"There is eternal winter in my soul," confessed Mary, her cheeks moist with tears. "I'm so miserable at times that it seems to me I may die. Now I want to cry hard, and to scream, and to beat my head against something hard." A sigh from the deepest recesses of her scarred soul fled her lips. "However, I must bow to the king, as well as his sycophants and heretics. I must always remember that I'm supposed to be the king's complaisant _natural daughter_. If I behave differently, my father can prosecute me for treason, as Francis Bryan told me once."

A distressed Jane stood up and approached her distraught stepdaughter. "I know that your tender, young heart is sore. It will take more than the superficial reconciliation with His Majesty to heal it. I swear that I'll aid you in any way I can, Your Highness."

For the first time, the Queen of England addressed Mary as royalty, which increased her respect to the king's wife. Mary spontaneously hugged Jane, who responded in kind.

Disentangling from their embrace, Mary broached the subject that always made the other woman uncomfortable. "I know that one day, the witch will face the holy vengeance for the evil she perpetrated in England, and for the one she is currently heaping upon France."

These words pierced Jane's heart like a knife-thrust. "Let the Lord judge Anne Boleyn."

"I'm certain that God will have her end up at the pyre, sooner or later."

The queen wanted to gift something to her stepdaughter in order to distract her from self-destructive thoughts. "Lady Mary, this chair once belonged to Queen Catherine. At my behest, some of her things were brought here from Kimbolton Castle so that I could give them to you."

Mary's visage was imbued with gratitude. "You are as sainted as my mother was!"

Jane continued, "You deserve to have these things in memory of the true queen."

Tears stung Mary's eyes. "I don't know how to thank you for this."

"Just find some solace in them," answered her stepmother.

Queen Jane strode to a chest of drawers in the corner and opened the top drawer. She retrieved Catherine's jewelry box and strolled back to the bed. Jane settled herself onto the bed, while Mary returned to her chair. Then the queen handed the box to her companion.

A radiant smile graced Jane's features. "You must recognize it, Lady Mary."

"I do!" exclaimed Mary, her heart overflowing with joy. She opened the box and saw a multitude of expensive jewels and her mother's rosary inside. "Thank you!"

As the girl touched the rosary reverently, Jane prayed that fate would instill into Mary some salutary warmth that would eject the bitterness. She would endeavor to find a good husband for her – a man who would not make her life as flat, narrow, and drab as her own marital landscape had become. _However, if the king does not listen to me, I'll be powerless to save Mary._

§§§

In the meantime, King Henry paced his bedchamber, as if he were an incensed Minotaur. His countenance was like that of Julius Caesar betrayed even by his friend, Brutus. It seemed that the infamous words _'Even you, Brutus?'_ would tumble from his lips. Nonetheless, he was silent, his expression imbued with some sinister emotion, the veins in his neck stuck out in ire.

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, stood near the door. As he observed his sovereign stalk from one wall to another, he wondered whether only Henry's pride had been injured by the unwelcome news. But he could also see a trace of furious envy in the king, which fired through him with every step, for the ruler's whole being emanated destruction and death. _Henry is jealous of Anne, and he cannot accept that she carries his rival's child_ , inferred Suffolk.

Finally, the monarch stopped in the middle of the room. "That whore will shame François and the French royal family! She cannot behave like a dignified queen!"

His subject inclined his head. "Most definitely, she cannot."

The king resumed his agitated pacing. "Before I had the harlot arrested, she spent her energy in fits of rage and tantrums of jealousy. She must have concentrated on her only duty – producing my male progeny – but she did not. Her family and she are hated in England! Anne created countless enemies for herself, and she alienated those who were sympathetic to her." His fists balled, he ended with, "The damned adulteress betrayed me with all those men in an attempt to sire a son, and for the sake of carnal pleasure. Eventually, she went further and married my French sworn foe. Now the entirety of Christendom laughs at me!"

"Your Majesty is exaggerating," soothed Charles.

"No!" shrilled the ruler. "I look like an utter fool! Anne betrayed me and wed François! At present, everyone in England knows that she became the Queen of France!"

The duke's mind formulated the speech to disparage Anne. He could not say that almost nobody believed in the charges against her. "The whole world is aware of her abominable crimes. Now the French king looks like a wicked man who married the worst Jezebel in history. Your Majesty is not blameworthy for her actions, and your subjects support you."

Henry halted near the desk loaded with papers. He grabbed a bronze sand-glass, adorned with diamonds, and hurtled it towards the fireplace. "That bitch has almost damned England and me! But now I'm free of her spell! She shall make François and France suffer!"

The Duke of Suffolk sighed: his liege lord still cared for the woman on some level. So, he strove to cement the king's abhorrence towards her. "The whore must be charged with high treason against Your Majesty. She has merited to be burned for sorcery, for it is obvious that she has bewitched you and the King of France. She is the worst kind of witch."

However, Henry did not listen to the duke. Under the influence of the most excruciating emotions, he paced, sometimes stopping and throwing things around. The images of the Valois ruler making love to Anne ripped through his consciousness, like poisoned barbed wire. _François must already have taken Anne many times,_ Henry fumed. These thoughts filled him with such unbearable pain that he could scarcely endure the stress and strain of the daily grind.

"François de Valois and his Boleyn courtesan!" roared Henry. He stopped near the wall, tapestried with the scene of the Great Fire of Rome, which had been instigated by Emperor Nero to later build an elaborate series of palaces without the senate's consent. "I'd love to see them tied to the pyre and writhe in the flames. I would have watched every moment of their agony."

Suffolk nodded. "Their viciousness is notorious."

Henry snarled, "Anne's new pregnancy is her ultimate betrayal of England and me." He then sprinted to a table, grabbed a vase, and tossed it towards the opposite wall.

Shards of glass coursed through the air. Charles Brandon ducked to avoid being injured.

"If it is François' child," remarked the Duke of Suffolk. He knew that Anne had always been faithful to Henry, and he had no doubt that François was the father of her new baby. But he had to ensure that the king's sentiments towards her would remain hostile.

As if he hadn't heard him, the king choked out, "She might bear a son for another king." His countenance evolved into abject misery. "This child in her womb should have been mine!"

King Henry fell into a frenzy of berserk rage. Within the next few minutes, the luxurious interior was destroyed, like a town pillaged by a victorious army. The room became a total mess of broken vases, chairs, and tables, as well as tapestries which he had ripped from the walls. Cushions, books, parchments, and candelabra were scattered across the floor in chaotic patterns. His temper was leaking out of him, like a torrent of water from an upturned cauldron.

"I want Anne dead!" The king threw the last whole chair towards the door.

Brandon sidestepped in the last instant. "She may miscarry this baby, just as it happened to her twice in the past. She seems to be incapable of bearing sons."

With a howl, the monarch stomped across and skidded to a halt near the wall, swathed with the tapestry of the Great Fire of Rome. "If the emperor fails to conquer Paris, I'll accomplish this feat in due time. I'll torch the French capital and watch it burn while playing on the lute, just as Nero observed the conflagration of Rome while merrily playing on the lyre."

His face like that of a wild beast, Henry shrieked like a stallion in a gelding stall. He then peeled this tapestry away from the wall, threw it away, and tramped it down with his feet.

Finally, the exhausted monarch fell onto a huge bed, canopied with masses of gorgeous white and beige velvet. The royal apartments in this palace had also been refurbished after Anne's arrest, and the broken interior was entirely in white and pastel colors.

"Leave me," moaned Henry, his voice fractured like everything around him.

After his subject had vacated the room, the King of England lay in ghastly stillness for a while. After the many months of denial, he admitted to himself that part of him still craved the empyreal fire of Anne. While being with her, he had touched something divine, as if he would set his spirit free to soar, until it returned to his body endlessly happy, regenerated, and strong.

Anne had awakened something incredible in Henry, but now he was hollow, like the gaping mouth of a monster. He longed for her as much as he had coveted the throne when Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales, had been alive and he had envied him because of his brother's first place in the succession. But even if she were innocent – which was not true in Henry's mind – it was too late to rescue his life's joy, for Anne was married to François and carried his child.

Being riven with these contradictions, Henry resorted to self-pity, blaming Anne for all of his afflictions. His dear Jane would bear him the finest prince on earth. _The whore cannot have a son with another man. Charles is correct that she must be as barren as the desert land,_ he labored to convince himself. Yet, he famished for her and dreamed of having children with Anne, begotten and reared in love, of enjoying the glory of parenthood together with her.

The knock on the door jolted the king out of his reverie. "Who is there?"

Pushing the door open, Charles Brandon peered inside timidly. "Your Majesty, I'm sorry for disturbing you. The urgent affairs of state require your immediate attention."

"Come in," Henry permitted grudgingly. "Say what you want, and get out."

After a moment's hesitation, the Duke of Suffolk garnered his courage and delivered a blow to his sovereign. "There is a large uprising in Yorkshire, and it is rapidly spreading to other parts of the country's north. They call themselves the Pilgrimage of Grace."

At this, Henry jumped from his feet, as if he had been fired from a cannon. "Convene the Privy Council. Dispatch a page to His Grace of Norfolk's estates, for I need him here."

Bowing, Charles assured, "All will be done, Your Majesty."

Left in the accursed solitude of his bedchamber, King Henry examined his surroundings. It seemed that his life was destroyed, just as the interior in the room was. His current existence was a shallow, empty mockery, which he would eagerly have repudiated if he only could. Then he reminded himself of his kingly duties to his country. _The riots in the north against me and Anne's pregnancy are the most dreadful news._ _I cannot change anything in Anne's case, but the rebels will pay with blood and tears for their opposition to my supremacy,_ he resolved.

§§§

At the same time, Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex and the royal chief minister, sat at his mahogany desk, reading through the papers which informed him about the upheaval in Yorkshire. His face shone with a sheen of sweat, and wrinkles of strain burrowed into his forehead. His austere attire of raven velvet, padded with wool, stressed his excessive pallor that was an indication of his inner perturbation.

His son, young Gregory, studied him before opining, "Father, those Catholic insurgents will be arrested soon. Our sovereign just needs to send his armies to the north."

"You are mistaken, son," his father's grave voice resonated. "The forces of the rebels far exceed the numbers of the king's men. I'm afraid the country's future is at stake."

"Do you think… they will make His Majesty restore the Catholic faith?"

"No," assured Cromwell as he stood up. "Henry is too proud to bow to the Pope."

The royal chief minister paced back and forth. Due to his high status, his quarters were one of the most spacious at the palace. Yet, the oak furniture, polished to perfection, was limited to a cabinet, two chests, his work desk, wooden chairs with spiral turned legs, and the massive, ebony wardrobe. As he had been rising in the social hierarchy, Cromwell had begun to love luxury and pomp, but he still strove to stress his simple tastes when he lived at court. At the same time, his home at Austin Friars in the City was grand enough to receive a monarch.

"Father, please stop!" Gregory begged. "It is grating on my nerves."

Nodding, Cromwell strode back to his high-back, carved chair upholstered with leather. This piece of furniture stressed his authority as he sat there, talking to those lower in rank.

The minister sighed. "His Majesty has just elevated me to Earl of Essex. In honor of my friendship with the king, a celebration was to be arranged at our home at Austin Friars. Now we will have to cancel it, so please have all the food in stock given to the poor, Gregory."

"I shall," complied his son. "Anyway, we cannot eat all those victuals."

Thomas characterized their sovereign. "King Henry loves luxury. He enjoys his jester's performances; he loves opulent feasts and masques; he plays tennis, chess, and cards, gambling regularly and aggressively. He buys a great deal of magnificent clothes and jewels, although he will never wear all of them in his lifetime. He squandered his frugal father's inheritance long ago. This year, the meager taxes we have collected barely cover the royal expenses. The sheer diversity of our liege lord's needs meant that I had to find alternative sources to finance them."

"And you filled the royal coffers with the monies from the corrupt monastic houses."

"The dissolution of the monasteries…" At this moment, Cromwell wore an incongruous expression of anxiety and dejection. "I sought to abolish the entire religious system so as to put its riches at the king's disposal, and to break opposition to royal supremacy." He stilled for a split second. "You and I are follow the teachings of Luther and Calvin, so we understand how important it is to lead the king away from the tenets of the Catholic faith, which he refuses to give up despite the ongoing reform. The mood of Englishmen is far more conservative than that of the continental Protestants, whose revolutionary zeal is well known, but they have long been prejudiced against the wealthy clergy. And I've worked so hard to eradicate the old faith from our land!"

Years ago, Cromwell had learned a lot about the business of appropriating ecclesiastical property from his former master – Cardinal Wolsey, who had dissolved about thirty religious houses. In 1535, the chief minister had introduced the _'Valor Ecclesiasticus'_ in order to determine how much property the Church owned, so he had sent out his commissioners to all the religious houses in England, Wales, and Ireland. _The Act of Suppression_ in 1536 guaranteed that even the small monasteries would be shut down, while their riches and land would be confiscated by the Crown. Thanks to Cromwell, the state treasury had gained millions of pounds. _I did not expect that there would be a rebellion, but Anne Boleyn warned me about it,_ recalled Cromwell.

Gregory came to his parent. Cromwell lifted his eyes to him, asking, "What?"

His son's expression was not gloomy. "You are high in the royal favor. After the uprising is squashed, everything will go back to normal, and you may become Lord Chancellor."

"His Majesty might order my arrest today. Pray tell, are you really such a dreamer, son?"

"Father, you and I are both determined optimists. Of all men, you know for a certainty that optimism is the faith in yourself, which leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence, and, of course, without cunning." Gregory smiled at his last words.

Thomas climbed to his feet and hugged his son. "Optimism is the ultimate definition of a leader. But now the insurrection poses a threat to our family that cannot be underestimated."

Gregory smiled. "God will protect us and help you finish the reforms in England."

The minister clasped the young man's hands in his hands. "Son, your presence at court at this tumultuous time is not a good idea. You should relocate to our home with your wife."

A shadow crossed Gregory's visage. "Elizabeth will prefer to stay with Queen Jane. I'm the heir to your new title and your estates. At first, my marriage seemed to me an obvious duty, but I thought we were a good match. Although she has two children by her first deceased husband, Elizabeth is young, pretty, intelligent, rich, and, best of all, related to the Queen of England."

"She is also sharp and practical," Cromwell voiced his observation. "Women like her have not a particle of reverence or respect for young lads, unless they are sons of someone who has power – and this is your case. So, all is in your favor, Gregory."

Gregory chuckled bitterly. "My wife has amassed countless items of expensive clothes of the utmost elegance. They are the envy of other maids employed at the queen's household."

"Extravagance is a question of degree, so you need to control your wife."

"It is impossible, Father. She always reminds me that she is the queen's sister."

Cromwell drew a long breath. "Your mother and I loved each other, but it didn't happen immediately after the wedding. Once we realized our feelings, our happiness was enormous." He sucked in his breath. "Her death devastated me, as long as the deaths of our daughters."

Tears brimmed in his son's eyes. "She must be in heaven now."

They crossed themselves, giving silent tribute to the minister's dearly departed wife.

Thomas eyed his son. Tall and lean, Gregory was handsome in a gentle way, like a poet, with honest, often dreamy, gray eyes and candid expression, a fusion of shyness and intelligence. His hair was blonde, his complexion ruddy – features he had inherited from his mother. An avid reader, he enjoyed literature and history. The young man had received the best possible education at Cambridge to prepare him for adult life. Unlike Cromwell, Gregory was not an intriguer – he was a man of great kindness and concern for others, and with a wonderful sense of humor.

Before dismissing his son, Thomas told him in a poignant bvoice, "I shall pray that your spouse will realize that marital happiness is more precious than her ambitions."

Hours later, Thomas Cromwell still sat at his desk, with his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair. In whatever direction his thoughts turned, he was faced with possibilities that were too disconcerting. The uprising might cost him his life, but he would fight tooth and nail for everything he had accomplished after the many difficult years of hard work.

* * *

 _I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave a review, which will encourage me to keep going. I'm trying to respond to all the reviews I receive, but sometimes, it takes me a long time to answer as my business life is very hectic, but I always respond, eventually._

 _The King of England's conversation with Antoine de Castelnau is full of tension. Henry insults the French ambassador because François became his mortal enemy after the King of France's marriage to Anne Boleyn. Moreover, now Henry is aware of Anne's pregnancy, and he considers her marriage and her pregnancy with François' child as the worst of all her "betrayals". His jealousy sends him into rage as he threatens Castelnau with Edward Seymour's sword. In another scene, we see Henry's aggression in the aftermath of his conversation with the French diplomat. The Duke of Suffolk and even the monarch himself understand that part of Henry still craves Anne's fire._

 _Antoine de Castelnau is not a fictional character. He was Bishop of Tarbes, and he served as an ambassador to England and Spain during the reign of François I. He was in London during the dramatic downfall of Anne. He died in 1539, and I'm not going to change this date._

 _Lady Mary Tudor was introduced in this chapter. She and Jane Seymour befriended each other after Mary's return to court. I stressed several times that Mary's reconciliation with Henry is superficial, and later you will see that he is treating her with suspicion and coldness. Full of her aversion towards Anne Boleyn, Mary hates her so much that even Jane feels somewhat discomfited. Mary will have an unconventional character arc in this AU. As for Jane, she is not with child yet, but she may conceive in later chapters – I cannot tell you anything now._

 _The Pilgrimage of Grace started in the north of England. Thus, Cromwell is worried about his fate, but he will not die anytime soon. I also introduced Cromwell's son, Gregory, portraying him as someone who is not like his father in many ways. Gregory was a well-educated and intelligent man, but in history he was outshined by his famous father; he will appear in this story from time to time._

 _I have a poll for you about Jane Seymour's fate in this AU on my profile page. I would be grateful for your response!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	12. Chapter 11: The Valois Children

**Chapter 11: The Valois Children**

 ** _December 5, 1536, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France_**

In the queen's apartments, the light from Venetian candelabra shone down softly upon gilded, red cedar furniture, carved with images of Hera and Zeus. Queen Anne and Dauphin Henri were playing piquet, sitting beneath a canopy of state of white and blue silk with fleur-de-lis.

"Will you win, Madame?" asked Henri, his scrutiny focused on the cards.

Anne released a deep sigh. He resisted calling his stepmother by the rightful title, despite spending time with her. "As we are both skilled in piquet, it is difficult to predict the outcome."

His intense gaze was directed at her. "If I win, will you permit me to ask you a question?"

A silence, full of trepidatious apprehension, ensued. The queen set her goblet onto the table that stood between them, and the clink on the marble surface sounded loud in stillness.

The queen viewed the Dauphin of France from top to toe. In 1519, she had served Queen Claude as her lady-in-waiting and, thus, remembered the prince's birth. Somewhat lean and athletic in stature, he was a handsome youth with upturned, brown eyes and stony countenance. Unlike his royal father and his younger brother, he didn't have the Valois long patrician nose. His handsome face, imbued with a hint of youthful naiveté, was framed by short-cut, brown hair.

Having already seen all of the royal children, she thought that Henri's appearance was different to that of Prince Charles and King François. There was no aura of magnificence about the dauphin, who lacked the lordly bearing of royalty. Not being charismatic and mischievous, his frigid demeanor was like an unassailable fortress, in which he stored his emotions and guarded them. The years he and his brother, the late Dauphin François, had spent in the Spanish captivity had impacted him to a substantial degree, but, fortunately, they had not broken his spirit.

Dauphin Henri preferred unostentatious outfits, which recalled Spanish fashion with their rich, yet gloomy, splendor. He frequently wore heavy black velvet that was a hallmark of wealth and influence in Spain. Today, Henri was accoutered in a doublet of black velvet, worked with gold and adorned with onyxes, as well as in matching toque and hose of the same material.

Her calmness belied the fear coursing through Anne. "Your Highness can ask me any questions. Don't be shy; we can talk about anything, and I'll answer truthfully."

His gaze was piercing her soul. "Very well, Madame. Let's start, then."

"Agreed," Anne echoed as she picked up a card deck from the table.

The dauphin began shuffling the cards. "England has a game like this."

The queen watched him cut the deck. "During my tenure as Henry's consort, I introduced piquet at the English court. But I'm not sure that it is still played by courtiers."

As he cut the higher score, it was his turn to deal. As the dealer, he would have the choice of cards at the commencement of each _partie_ that consisted of six deals.

He commented, "Jane Seymour is said to be a virtuous English lady."

She suppressed a grimace of distaste. "Perhaps you can characterize her in this way. But most English gentlewomen are better educated than her; she can barely write her own name."

An astounded Henri quizzed, "How did she attract the English king, then?"

"She is my opposite," answered Anne.

He studied her closely for a long moment, and she returned his penetrating stare.

She was awash with relief when Henri started dealing twelve cards to her. The remaining eight cards, which formed _the_ _talon_ , were placed face down between them. They exchanged cards then: he took five cards from her and placed them face down, and an equal number of cards was then drawn from the talon. Then Anne took three cards from him and three from the talon.

After the deal, the queen and the dauphin sorted their cards in their hands. As the game went on, Anne found it difficult to concentrate, being rankled by her fright that her stepson would mention her religion. They did six deals, and, eventually, Anne lost the partie.

"I've beaten you, Madame." His voice was like a cold wind sweeping through the room.

His stepmother grinned. "You have convinced me of your prowess at the card table."

Henri's countenance was shadowed by an unutterable melancholy. "Unfortunately, not my prowess in state affairs. Nothing will ever be enough to please my father."

A sigh broke from Anne. _Such a young man should be vivacious and joyful, but he is not. Sadness is seeping from Henri like blood from a wound. Was the impact of the Spanish captivity on him really so profound that memories still poison him?_ Obviously, discordance existed between the dauphin and the ruler, but she had no clue as to their disagreements. She would have to observe the king's relationship with his heir apparent once François returned to court.

She interrupted a short silence. "You have won, so I'm at your disposal."

His clever, sharp eyes spoke more eloquently than his tongue. They could communicate more than his lips, and now Anne saw that Henri was a man who yielded to no one, not even to his father. She sensed an inner strength in him, which no other youth of his age possessed. In the years ahead he could become a capable state administrator and a strong leader.

"The King of England," commenced the Dauphin of France. "Did you betray him with those men who were executed on his orders, one of them being your own brother?"

The question struck her in the chest like a dart. Nonetheless, Anne masked her umbrage and pain, articulating, "Never, not even in my wildest dreams, has the wicked thought of betraying Henry crossed my mind." She stilled for a split second, as her hand flew to her enlarged stomach. "I swear on all I hold dear – on the life of my daughter, Elizabeth, and that of my unborn child – that every word I speak is the truth. Moreover, I'm a good Christian, and I'm aware that such a terrible sin would have condemned my immortal soul to the eternal fires of hell."

Henri was quiet for a long moment, his eyes locked with hers. He discerned only sincerity in her features with their exotic boniness that was shadowed by weariness and hardness. _She did not betray Henry of England with anyone, I have no doubt of it_ , the dauphin inferred. _Now she has confirmed it, and that is enough for me. But many other things might make us enemies forever._

Queen Anne was unlike other women the dauphin had ever met. She was an enigma to him, with both positive and negative facets of her character. Ladies at the French court were beautiful coquettes attired in eccentric fashions, many of whom were frivolous and too eager to slide under the sheets of their sovereign at the first invitation. Unlike them and in contrast to what Henri had heard about Anne's far-famed flirtatiousness, his father's new spouse seemed reticent and nevertheless bold in speech, her bearing majestic, as if she had been born into royalty.

Looking her straight in the eye, Henri broached the most sensitive subject. "Hasn't your role in England's break with Rome condemned your soul to hell?"

A discomfited Anne confronted him like a warrior. "In the eyes of the Catholic Church, heretics are all those who separate themselves from the so-called true faith, and who reject dogmas or add new doctrines to it." Her voice took a higher octave. "Your Highness is a Catholic, but you are also a Renaissance prince, enlightened and impeccably educated. Have you ever admitted a thought that some things that the Vatican does are incongruent with Christian principles?"

He furrowed his brows. "What do you mean, Madame?"

Her expression was tinged with wisdom. "Canon law is a set of rules which are made by prelates. Some of them are distinct from those found in the Bible, like the Ten Commandments. The reason is that rules are created by human beings, who force others to abide by them. Perhaps many people do not know what God wanted His children to do in different settings. Moreover, you cannot find in the Bible a dogma that there is only one correct way to worship the Almighty."

He shook his head. "It is clear from verses in Scripture that all of the Apostles were swift and severe when it came to heresy in the Christian Church. The same severity can be found in the teaching of the Catholic Church in the centuries thereafter. It is essential that all Catholics examine how they practice their faith and do not do anything that is not approved by the Pope."

Grim nervousness palpitated in Anne's bosom, for one wrong word or move could break the carefully wrought tension between them. At the same time, an agitated Henri had bouts of anger which he fought to control so that they could maintain a veneer of politeness.

The queen brought the pope's most controversial deed to his attention. "Nowadays, the Catholic Church is selling lots of indulgences. From what I know, the proceeds help the Pope pay for the rebuilding of Saint Peter's Basilica in Rome. These funds must also fill the Pope's coffers."

"And what?" the prince prompted.

Her heart thumped with repugnance towards the corrupt popery. "An indulgence is the remission of all or part of the temporal punishment due to sins which have already been forgiven. Do you think that one's sins can be forgiven just because they pay for some paper issued by priests? Do you not think that abuses of indulgences have become rampant in the Church?"

"Yes, if the Pope says so," Henri answered unhesitatingly. "You are a staunch supporter of Martin Luther. I've read all of his books, and I've found them the most horrible heresy. In his critique of the Catholic Church, Luther dared drop his belief in purgatory, and he also denied that a person's actions play an important role in salvation, saying faith alone is what counts."

"That is true." Now she itched to finish this discourse as soon as possible.

At this moment, Anne was sad beyond all imaginings of melancholy. _Henri is a radical Catholic, who will never accept that there can be at least some grain of truth in teachings of Luther and Calvin._ Most likely, the prince did not support his parent's policy of religious tolerance, and if he ever ascended the throne, he would work hard to reverse the current situation in France.

His voice jolted the queen out of her reverie. "As for indulgences, if their sale is abolished by the Pope, then I'll consider it right and valid." Leaning forward, he glared at her across the table. "Jesus Christ founded the Papacy in the 1st century, when he chose St. Peter, the leader of the apostles, to be his earthly representative, from whom His Holiness is directly descended."

"Your Highness, I respect your opinion and will never argue with you again."

At this, the prince's façade of civility cracked, and his temper spiked. "Damn the heretics to hell!" His fists clenched as a tide of sizzling, scarlet rage assaulted him. "I wish my father well, and I love him dearly. But when I become King of France, I shall burn as many Protestants as I need to eradicate the seeds of heresy from the French land once and for all."

The queen ventured intrepidly, "In my opinion, Catholics and Protestants need to find common ground as brothers, for now they are a divided family of Christians. They should ask themselves which commonalities they have, for there is only one God above all of us."

"I do disagree!" His glare was piercing and condemning. "You drove King Henry from the flock of Rome. England has been wandering through the labyrinth of heresy, and it will never cease until the country is restored to Rome. But here, in France, you must hide your preferences."

She emphasized, "Your father permitted me to worship my faith in private."

"I'll speak to him about it as soon as he returns."

Against her will, an acerbic smile manifested upon her visage. "If Your Highness is so set on burning Protestants, I must be prepared to meet my maker at the pyre."

His ire fully abated, now Henri regretted his outburst. "Your Majesty is my father's wife and my sibling's mother, so you are safe. None of Valois is like that Tudor monster."

A wave of exhilaration swept over Anne. _Henri has acknowledged me as the Queen of France! It is the first time he has addressed me by my title._ The guilt in his eyes bespoke that now he was silently reproaching himself, because he had not wanted to distress her in her condition. Maybe over time, their hostilities would cease. However, she did not hold her hopes high, for their religious differences separated them from each other like an insurmountable wall.

The Queen of France smiled at her stepson. "Of course, Your Highness is not capable of committing such an atrocity. But I grieve that you do not want us to be friends."

The affability and sincerity Anne exuded touched a chord in the prince's heart. To Henri, Anne was an honest woman of principles, who spoke her mind, stood for what she believed was right, and fully embraced life. The eagerness and confidence of her manner to converse with him made the utmost impression upon him, hitherto limited by the warnings of Diane de Poitiers, whom he had fallen in love with. _I must be careful around Anne Boleyn_ , the dauphin cautioned himself.

Henri's laughter was biting, without the joyousness of youth in its sound. "What can make people friends? Many things! Yet, the passion of friendship is of such a sweet and enduring nature that it may last a lifetime, unless people have great differences."

Anne smiled cordially. "We count on the Almighty, and not upon ourselves, to give us certainty. In His Name we practice, and His word directs us to act."

He rose to his feet. "Indeed, Your Majesty. Now allow me to leave you."

"Of course, Your Highness. The court is awaiting you."

Sweeping a bow, Dauphin Henri stalked to the door and vacated the chamber. Silence reigned, punctured only by the cracking fire in the hearth adorned with salamanders.

Anne dropped her face into her hands. "Catholics will always be my adversaries."

The turbid flood of reality came crashing down upon her like waves pounding endlessly along a rocky beach. She needed to create her own faction to counterbalance the powerful Catholic party at court, to avoid all possible pitfalls, and, most importantly, to live sanely and sensibly.

§§§

Standing near a window, Queen Anne observed snow swirl and leap in gusts of wind. A faint, crescent moon lit up the dark firmament. The courtyard, swathed in snow, and the trees, as if clothed in a mantle of thick, white fur, glittered brilliantly in the torchlight.

"Your Majesty, do you wish to rest? This is important in your condition."

Pivoting, Anne smiled at her guest. "Madame de Châteaubriant, you were sent here to be the king's eyes and ears. Yet, I've been granted a friend to whom I can turn."

At the Valois court, the queen was lonelier than a caravan crossing the desert. She was incapable of distinguishing friend from foe among all of her handmaidens. The Countess de Châteaubriant, whose frankness had impressed Anne weeks earlier, seemed to be a noble-minded and honest person, and, most importantly, King François had sent her to take care of his wife.

Françoise de Foix crossed to the window and dropped a curtsey. "I'm honored to be your friend. Please, let me know if I can be of any help."

"Thank you." The queen strolled to a coach near the fireplace.

"There is no need to thank me, Your Majesty."

The countess aided the queen to settle comfortably on the couch draped with green velvet.

Now Anne was about four months along in her pregnancy. In the daytime, her condition was not yet entirely apparent, for these days, she favored gowns with high waist and ample skirts. Now she was clad in a robe of steel gray satin, embellished with images of naiads, the soft material enveloped her tightly enough to see the swell of her growing stomach.

Anne gestured towards an armchair next to the couch, and Françoise seated herself there.

The queen confessed, "I first looked upon you with profound dislike. That was bad of me to have any unsavory thoughts of you, for you have never wronged me in any way."

"You simply remember the past," inferred Françoise. "I mean the years of my tenure as His Majesty's chief mistress." She smiled mistily, as if her dreams had materialized before her. "I resisted him at first, as I loved my husband and wanted to be faithful to him back then. However, soon the monarch charmed me with his remarkable personal accomplishments and graces."

Anne regarded her with a perceptive look. "You are still not over His Majesty."

The Countess de Châteaubriant blushed like a maiden who felt awkward in her skin. "I think it is impossible to forget a wonderful man such as your husband. In spite of the fact that he discarded me years ago, we have remained friends. Sometimes, I even hoped that our attraction would be rekindled, but to no avail. Then I realized that I've never been his true love. Yet, there are moments when I cannot tear myself loose from my fascination of him."

Françoise' candor was her major weapon in winning Anne's friendship. As her arrival had looked suspicious, she had resolved to act in the most refreshing manner for the Valois court, full of politics, intrigues, deceits, and betrayals. _My frankness is the only reason why now Queen Anne is talking to me. She may be the king's true love!_ Françoise prayed that one day, they two would discover the natural pulse of devotion to and a healthy flow of trust between each other.

Queen Anne fended off the impulse to snap at her companion. Unexpectedly, a tide of petty jealousy washed over her at the thought that her spouse had bedded Françoise on numerous occasions in the past. There was no love in this sensation, but it was still burning in her bosom. In spite of her recent close brush with death, Anne saw herself as an accomplished noblewoman who had conquered the throne of England, albeit she had made some fatal mistakes which had aided her enemies to destroy her; a unique temptress who could make any man eat from her palm. And even though Anne did not harbor any romantic feelings for King François, the selfish part of her did not like the thought of him having many paramours. _No one will ever accuse me of jealousy towards the flamboyant King of France. Nobody and never!_ This was what Anne resolved.

Anne's voice was as bland as it could be. "It might seem rather anticlimactic to a woman when her husband sends his former paramour to serve and spy on her. Do you understand me?" This sounded very reasonable and moderate, and above all, not suspicious.

"I do," the countess confirmed. "Now you know that the king's purposes were different."

The queen would have expressed her contempt towards men, if they were not discussing their sovereign. "The truth is that we never know what is happening in the heads of men."

"That is extraordinary," commented Françoise, her voice dripping in amusement. "To hear this from the woman whose feat was the Crown of England!"

"Actually, that is usual," objected the ruler's wife. "Feminine charms and wiles may be strong, but they do not make us invincible. The male mind is certainly a devious one."

The countess heaved a sigh. She had observed the queen slip into a painful apathy, in which one day was much like another, but Françoise wanted Anne to be on good terms with the king. She would need to persuade Anne not to dwell on her abhorrent first matrimony.

Anne stretched out her hands to the fire. "Dauphin Henri spent today's evening with me. Every time he comes, I dream that the ice of his antagonism may disappear as if by magic, and warmth will then burst out in full bloom in its stead. But it has not happened yet."

Françoise comprehended her concerns. "Give the youth more time to get accustomed to his new surroundings. Not raised to be king, he became the dauphin mere months ago."

"And the Spanish captivity…" Anne's voice broke off.

"Henri has been affected by that ghastly experience to an extreme degree. His eldest brother, François, was prone to sickness since their return from Madrid; he never fully recovered his heath, which resulted in his untimely death and a great tragedy for France."

The queen sighed mournfully. "I was in England when the awful rumors reached me. I was told that he had died of consumption, although nothing was mentioned of his long illness."

In a hushed tone, Françoise opined, "Although the late dauphin was rather frail, he did not exhibit any symptoms of consumption before his sudden passing." She lowered her voice. "The king suspected poisoning, but there is no proof, so no one was arrested."

Anne's visage morphed into horror. "Poisoning? How is that possible?"

It occurred to the countess that she should not have said that. "It is not known for sure, Your Majesty. Most likely, these are the fantasies of my overactive imagination."

Her nervous pallor was noticed by the queen. "Perhaps, Madame."

Françoise switched to their previous topic. "You will get on well with Dauphin Henri. In all of his relationships, he is about to do something that will test his own nerve and resources, something that, if successful, will allow him to acquire his own belief in himself."

Anne breathed out a sigh. "I hope so, Madame."

"He is a good and smart lad, Madame. Everything will be all right."

As Françoise chattered about books and plays, Anne could not help but feel a nasty taste in her mouth. The queen could not divert her mind from the possibility that the late dauphin had been poisoned. Anne had the cohort of unknown Catholic enemies at court, and a frisson of fear tingled her spine at the thought that her baby could be in peril. _God bless and rest the soul of the hapless dauphin. Lord save and protect my own child,_ Anne prayed, her hand on her abdomen.

* * *

 ** _December 12, 1536, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France_**

Queen Anne breathed in the cold air and shivered, but she felt less lonesome and more hopeful. The winter sun glittered through the windows and bounced off burgundy floral brocade that hung the antechamber's walls. The flecks of fresh snow kissed her cheeks with icy lips, the forerunner of a snowstorm that would wrap the earth in a cloak long before the sunset.

"Is it not cold, Your Majesty?" inquired Françoise de Longwy, Anne's principal lady-in-waiting. "Do you want us to put you to bed, and bring you a cup of warm spiced wine?"

Anne closed the shutters and spun around to face her. "No, thank you. We are safe from the nipping winter blasts. As December draws to a close, frosts will become harder."

Françoise de Foix emerged next to them. "I guess the frosts in France are not as harsh as they are in England. The local climate must be milder and more humid."

"That is right, Madame de Foix," replied the queen in a very friendly tone, much to the astonishment of all the others in the room. This was perceived as a sign of Anne's favor towards the ruler's former _maîtresse-en-titre_. "Bordered by four seas and by three mountain ranges, France is a country with diverse climatic conditions, resulting in versatile weather patterns."

A surprised Françoise let out a tremulous smile. "I've never been to England. As I studied geography, I assume that the parts of England closest to the Atlantic Ocean experience the mildest temperatures, although these must also be the wettest. The areas in the east must be drier and less windy, but also colder. The cold and windy winter lasts from December until February."

"Your tutor schooled you most well." The queen's accolade was sincere.

The door burst open, and young Marie de Bourbon slid inside, crying, "Your Majesty!"

Jeanne d'Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, left her embroidery and climbed to her feet. At the sight of her upbraiding countenance, Marie de Bourbon paused in her tracks.

"What an awful lapse of manners," grumbled Jeanne. "Shame on you, Mademoiselle de Bourbon! You are in the queen's presence! How can a genteel maiden from an old and respected family display such ignorance of elementary rules of etiquette?"

Marie dropped her head. "I'm sorry."

Queen Anne strolled over to them. "Be at ease, Madame de Bar-sur-Seine. I prefer you all to be in an elated frame of mind rather than in a sullen one." She flicked her gaze to Marie. "There is no need to apologize. Tell us why you are so joyful."

The young woman lifted her facetious eyes to the queen's face. "The dressmakers have finished Your Majesty's new stunning gown."

A sudden hubbub of laughter and jocund chatter floated through the closed doors. Then the door opened, and several ladies with the most delightful expressions entered.

"Your Majesty!" Louise de Montmorency exclaimed in exhilarated accents. "Your gown will be delivered by dressmakers in moments! You will be able to try it on!"

A chorus of exclamations rose in the air, for Anne's singular style was well-known.

"That is awesome!" cried the euphoric queen.

Within the matter of minutes, the dressmakers carried inside the queen's new gown and then departed. After a gauntlet of smiles and laughs, Anne was assisted by her maids to put it on.

As Anne froze in the middle of the chamber, her ladies gawked at her in fascination. The gown was a masterpiece of the tailor's art, blessed with a great talent in sewing. At the same time, the queen reminisced, with a twinge of regret that those moments had long elapsed, the first merry months of her marriage to King Henry when her former husband had liked watching her dress in gowns he had bought for her, and when they had awaited a golden Tudor prince, not Elizabeth, while deities of joy had reigned in Anne's universe. With a sigh, the queen prohibited herself from thinking about her first marriage and tried not to concentrate on it.

Her eyes of a soft brown, the Queen of France eyed her ladies with a scintillating smile. A tastefully low-necked, fabulous gown of dazzling white brocade, wrought with threads of gold, was decorated with diamonds, scattered about the bodice in the design of a military parade. The gown's ample skirt had several layers of lace design and a long train of silver taffeta, passmented with gold. Studded with massive black pearls, the stomacher was of silver velvet, while a girdle of diamonds encircled her waist. Marie de Lorraine brought a gorgeous headdress of goldsmith's work, which now confined Anne's dark tresses, setting off her swarthy countenance.

Anne twirled around and glanced at a looking glass that was set on a table. "Ladies, what do you think? Should I say 'thank you' to the dressmakers?"

"Most definitely, Your Majesty," Jeanne d'Angoulême concurred with a smile.

Marie and Louise de Lorraine chorused, "Ah, Your Majesty! You look like a goddess!"

"The most wonderful dress I've ever seen!" twittered Marie de Bourbon.

With a smile, Françoise de Longwy chimed in, "Madame, you are beautiful like the most exotic white rose on earth. The whiteness of your gown creates an air of innocence about you, and the unusual design symbolizes something from mythology."

Françoise de Foix assessed, "The magnificent gown does accentuate how tall, slim, and exquisitely proportioned Your Majesty is." She then recollected, "In ancient Rome, the priestesses of the goddess Vesta dressed themselves in white robes, a white shawl, and a white veil. If we add a white shawl or veil here, you will look like an ancient goodness."

Anne liked the idea. "Order a white gauze veil that can be fastened to the headdress."

For a while, the queen walked to and fro, enjoying the feel of the soft material against her skin. According to the monarch's advice before their wedding, she had chosen the color white to reassert the truth of her innocence before the whole court on Christmas.

Anne stopped near the fireplace, where flames were licking over logs. In the same way, memories of her happiest months were burning her from the inside out. With tears in her eyes, Anne recalled how she had been trying on her coronation gown of purple velvet, furred with ermine. At the time, Henry had loved her so much that a verse had been composed by the English playwright Nicholas Udall at his behest, where she and her then unborn child – Elizabeth – had been proclaimed England's hope, while Anne's name had been equated with holy grace.

Momentarily despondent, the queen murmured to herself, "Have I been damned with perennial sadness? Why did all the good in my life perish in the haze of the past?"

Unbeknownst to her mistress, Françoise de Foix stood behind her. Her voice as quiet as a whisper, she uttered, "True love is the condition in which the happiness of your beloved is essential to your own. Was it present on both sides in your former marriage, Your Majesty?"

"What do you imply?" Anne's startled voice was as gentle as a butterfly's wing.

Françoise sank into a deep curtsey. "Nothing that you cannot fathom out."

The herald announced the arrival of Prince Charles, the new Duke d'Orléans after the late dauphin's passing, and Princess Marguerite de Valois. They both wore blithesome expressions as they crossed to the hearth and greeted the queen in accordance with the royal protocol.

"Rise," Anne purred. "No formalities with me in private, please."

Princess Marguerite examined her stepmother with a keen eye. "Your Majesty looks fabulous! You are more beautiful than the mythological Helen of Troy is supposed to be."

Prince Charles came to the queen and kissed her hand. "Madame, let me be your gallant knight at least for tonight. When you appear at the Christmas festivities in this gown, everyone will be utterly charmed. Your intense, dark eyes will hook everybody to the soul, the enchanting music of your voice will make them like clay in your hands. Your appearance of a goddess, who has descended from the Mount Olympus, will move all the spectators all to you, as if they were sailors drawn to the rocky coast of the sirens' island, which Roman poets called _Sirenum scopuli_."

Charles' ebullient, romantic, intelligent speech was similar to his father's tirades, and Anne chortled. "The courtiers will not voyage to that island. They do not even know where it is located, for it is as enigmatic as the origins of earth are."

The prince jested, "They will not reach you because my father will not allow them to."

Marguerite grinned. "The king will guard his lovely wife as his rarest jewel."

Anne eyed her stepchildren. The prince and princess were easy-going and carefree, unlike their elder brother, Henri. After their first dinner with her, they had been pleased to discover that all the tales about Anne's tremendous wit and intelligence had been true. It began to seem to Anne that in her relationships with young Charles and Marguerite she would grasp one of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship – to understand and to be understood.

An attractive girl of thirteen, Princess Marguerite was of slender build. In her amber eyes, Anne could see King François and his sister; her long Valois nose also attested to her royal origins. Marguerite's angular, yet delicate, features reminded Anne of Queen Claude, but her complexion was leaning towards the Valois dour one. The princess did not have the petite figure and fragility of her late mother, and the strength of her will was evident in her clever, stubborn eyes.

Anne's gaze traversed the prince, whom she had wished to wed her daughter, Elizabeth. Apparently, Charles' appearance had many of the French monarch's traits: almond-shaped, amber eyes, the Valois nose, high cheekbones, and saturnine handsomeness. Moreover, he was far taller than an average man of fourteen, and he would tower over the tallest man at court in his early adulthood, just as his father had once done. Charles' conceited grin and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes, as well as his wit and eccentricity reminded Anne of her own husband.

Unlike their elder brother, both Marguerite and Charles were both fond of extravagant fashions. The prince's stylish doublet of purple velvet, ornamented with diamonds, sapphires, and rubies, was furred with sable. His chestnut hair fell over his ears from beneath a toque of black velvet, adorned with a white feather and jeweled with a diamond brooch – an affiquet. His sister's tastes were a bit less ostentatious: her nice, lilac silk gown, which had open, pendant sleeves trimmed with white lace, was embossed with a floral motif of embroidery, stressing the freshness of her youth, while her French hood of yellow velvet confined her long, brunette hair.

Anne's gaze darted between her stepchildren. "Your Highnesses are both exaggerating."

Marguerite contradicted, "No, we are not. Our father will be enchanted as he sees you."

Prince Charles affirmed dramatically, "Good heaves, I've forgotten why I've come!"

Marguerite divulged, "We have a letter from the king for Your Majesty."

Charles explained, "It was delivered by our most trusted spies. It was given to me so that I could pass it on to you or the Countess de Châteaubriant."

Marguerite was curious as to the letter's content. "Father is a marvelous poet!"

The prince handed a parchment, stamped with the Valois seal, to Queen Anne. As she took it in her hands, they trembled, as if she were in a fit of argue. Grinning at her, he interpreted it as the excitement she must have felt at the thought of his illustrious parent. His guess was correct as Anne's insides were foaming with a blend of delight and relief that the ruler was alive.

Notwithstanding the above, Anne showed neither interest nor emotion as she commented, "Finally, after almost two months of silence, the sovereign of France has written to his wife."

The queen made her way to the window. "Fetch the musician!"

Charles and Marguerite traded glances of incomprehension, as her reaction puzzled them.

Anne halted near the window. "Play a Burgundian chanson by Guillaume Dufay!"

The princess queried, "Maybe something bright and cheerful, Your Majesty?"

The queen's question was expected. "But doesn't a chanson fit the time of day?"

As the plangent tune resounded, Anne pivoted to the window, the parchment clasped in her hand. She gazed out, into the swirling whitish darkness, surrounding the cloud-hidden moon and the palace. The snow was heaped up in the courtyard to an uncommon height, and a thick, white carpet also blanketed the hills and the valley. She wondered whether the monarch would be able to return before the Christmastide, provided that he intended to leave his army.

Her heart thumping like a broken wagon wheel, the queen broke the seal, unrolled the parchment, and then started reading. The king's handwriting was calligraphic and handsome, with a touch of flair, and there was nothing pretentious or coy in his expression.

 _Dearest Anne,_

 _I believe that you have not thought of me. After our marriage, you have always avoided me, as if I were the worst pestilence in your life. Therefore, I decided not to intrude upon your time and privacy, so I have not kept in touch with you._

 _At present, we are in Toulouse. As you may have heard, a battle took place in Auvergne, and we won it. But Carlos is still somewhere around, although he cannot reach Ferdinand, who is being held in the north. There will be more battles when the weather improves._

 _I've missed you, although this means nothing to you. I've been keeping your lovely face in my mind. Perhaps you were my talisman in battles._

 _I hope you will like my gifts. Take care of yourself and our babe._

 _François, King of France_

As she finished reading, Anne held the letter between her hands, as if not wishing to part with it. For so long, she had been offended by his ignorance of her, thinking that he had not cared not only about her, but also about their child. The thought that the barriers she had deliberately erected between them were the reason for his silence was oddly painful for her. The reality was opposite to her fears: all this time, François remembered Anne, needing her to give him strength.

"He has missed me," the queen whispered to herself, clutching the letter to her chest.

Her lips trembled, and bitter words towards herself were on them. She should not have been so unfeeling towards a warrior, who could have died on a battlefield while saving his country. The spectre of deeply ingrained fear for François' wellbeing and guilt rose up inside of Anne like a shadow to choke her. Unbidden, tendrils of relief mingled with inexplicable happiness spurted in her inner world. In spite of all her loathing towards matrimony, she did miss François not as her husband, but as an intelligent conversationalist and as someone to whom she was grateful.

 _In mythology, Hephaestus was married to Aphrodite by Zeus to prevent a war of the gods fighting for her hand. Will my marriage to François stop the war in France? Will something good follow our victory?_ They could be invincible together, and their reign could be long and grand if they defeated the emperor, even though there would be no love between the two of them.

Still holding the letter, Anne looked out and attempted to distract herself from her spouse. "His Majesty is fond of the talented figures such as Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo Buonarroti, Giulio Romano, Baldassare Peruzzi, and so forth. This fondness has heralded a great awakening of architectural energy in France, and I'll never cease admiring this grand palace."

The prince's voice ceased Anne's tirade. "If this letter has failed to improve Your Majesty's mood, then his gift will most certainly impress you a lot."

Anne swiveled and gaped at her ladies, who put a velvet-covered case at a marble table. Prince Charles approached the table and hefted the lid, revealing an oval-cut, massive necklace of six rows of diamonds, set in spectacular garnets. The prince took it in his hands, and gasps of wonder erupted from the assemblage, for the necklace's magnificence was unparalleled.

The queen and the prince met in the center. Charles fastened the item about Anne's neck, and exuberant acclamations broke from the concourse. The ruler had always been extravagant, and they assumed that this gift was one of the many which would follow soon.

Anne caressed the "AR" pendant of the necklace, which meant 'Anna Regina' and rested over her stomacher. "It was nice of the king to ask the goldsmith to create my initials on his gift."

Marguerite appeared beside the queen. "Our father shows his adoration for you."

Anne ignored her stepdaughter's statement. "I'll heartily thank His Majesty for this gift." She still refused to refer to her husband by his first name, despite his request.

The princess stated, "The gown and jewels make you shine like a sun."

This extracted a smile from Charles. "The magnificence of our father's court is matched by the brilliance of French literature and architecture during his rule. French manners, art, and dress are becoming the models of culture and signs of elegance and grace."

"At the French court," continued Anne enthusiastically, "everyone shines in the reflected light, illuminated by the rays of King François, who has brought enlightenment to the nation."

The prince stressed, "You shine in your husband's rays like a huge diamond."

His sister nodded. "Brighter than others."

At this moment, Queen Anne felt the erstwhile, sprightful, unworldly spirit of a seductress resurrect. _The greatest gift of life is love, and once I thought that I had been blessed with Henry's love. Yet, I was mistaken, and I shall never be deluded into thinking that I can be happy again, especially not with another king._ Her mood tumbling into an endless black hole, she compelled that merry spirit to retreat into her inner self, although its flame was still burning in deep in her.

* * *

 _I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave a review, which will encourage me to keep going._

 _I thought that we needed a chapter about Anne Boleyn's meeting with the King of France's children. Now Anne met Dauphin Henri, Princess Marguerite de Valois, and Prince Charles, Duke d'Orléans. While Henri was extremely influenced by the several years which he and his late brother – the late Dauphin François – spent in Spain, Charles was too young at the time when their father was defeated at Pavia in 1526, so Charles did not suffer at the hands of the emperor. That is why Henri and Charles are so different, and these differences are showed in all the episodes in this chapter. Obviously, Anne is going to have friendlier relationships with Marguerite and Charles than with Henri, mainly due to the queen's religious background. Her conversation with Henri illustrates their differences and shows that their relationship will remain tense and cold, at least for now._

 _Now King François is fighting against Emperor Charles, so he is staying away from court and has almost no contact with Anne. As you deduced, he does not write her often because Anne made it clear that she wants them to live like strangers in marriage. Yet, Charles delivers Anne a letter from the king, which proves that François didn't forget about Anne and is worried for her and their unborn child. Neither François nor Anne love each other at this stage, but, of course, the monarch feels more affection for his wife than Anne has for him. Strictly speaking, she feels disdain for matrimony and men in general, and even though Anne is delighted to receive news from François, this delight does not come from something akin to her growing affection for him – she is mostly relieved that her husband is alive. It will take Anne a long time to start trusting François._

 _As Anne needed allies, she realized that at present, her closest ally is Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant. They are not intimate friends, but Anne kind of trust her husband's former mistress more than she trusts her other ladies-in-waiting. Anne and Françoise may become friends in the future, but it will take Anne a long time to start trusting anyone, especially her royal husband and anyone associated with him, except for his two youngest children – Charles and Marguerite. Françoise is frank with Anne because she knows that it is the only way to win the favor of the king's wife so that she can protect Anne from potential enemies, just as the monarch asked her to act._

 _I'm sorry, but I cannot tell you whom Anne will have – a boy or a girl. You will have to wait and see._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	13. Chapter 12: Political and Amatory Things

**Chapter 12: Political and Amatory Things**

 ** _December 20, 1536, Palais de Poitiers, Poitiers, county of Poitiers, France_**

The huge and well-illuminated great hall was thronged with sumptuously attired French courtiers. Surrounded by his entourage, the King of France strolled across to the massive, carved throne under a canopy of cloth of gold. Although they all trailed behind him like a robe's train, there was no noise, for each footfall was silenced by the vastness of the chamber's space, which was why the room was called _the hall of lost footsteps_ , or _salle des pas perdus._

Outside the chamber, the palace was alive with servants, who, even at such an early hour, were bustling about their duties. Those who were not admitted to the great hall staggered through the corridors, bleary-eyed from their beds. The thick walls of the castle could not ward off the winter cold, so in all the rooms and hallways fires danced merrily in the hearths.

A week earlier, the Valois monarch had come to the city of Poitiers, which had been the seat of the Counts of Poitou and Dukes of Aquitaine centuries ago. Together with his generals and his advisors, he had arrived in Poitiers from Toulouse to meet with Protestant envoys.

"We can start now," François stated as he seated himself into the throne.

A groom went to fulfill the order. A cacophony of voices was bubbling from the nobles.

"Today is a great day," said the ruler to his three advisors.

Anne de Montmorency admitted, "Your Majesty, at first, I did not like the idea of creating an alliance with Protestant nations. Now I see that my assessment of the situation was incorrect."

"Of course, it was wrong," barked Philippe de Chabot.

Glowering between his two subjects, François admonished, "In youth, we were all close friends. However, later you started competing for my affection and for power." He heaved a sigh. "Rivalry between factions at court always plants the seeds of an inevitable conflict."

"I apologize," began Montmorency, "if I displeased you, my liege."

"I'm sorry," Chabot echoed.

Cardinal de Tournon chimed in, "The rivalry should be not with others but with yourself. I always try to improve myself. I fight against my own weaknesses, not against others."

The king tipped his head. "The kinder and wiser you are, the better people, situations, and opportunities you will attract into your life. Small and good things count."

Montmorency and Chabot nodded, but the king saw that they had dismissed his words.

François reminisced, "I've always had an amicable relationship with each of you, Philippe and Monty. Together we played games in the gardens at Amboise, where I grew up. Together we learned to handle sword, rapier, and other weapons. We have fought many battles together, and we have also suffered in captivity together. I shall not allow you to destroy our friendship."

The two men had the decency to cast their eyes down, but said nothing.

The herald announced the arrival of ambassadors. A hush fell over the room.

Several men entered and walked to the throne. They were all dressed in unusual foreign fashions, austere and richly embroidered. They swept bows to the ruler almost in unison.

King François greeted, "Welcome to my war court. It is an honor to see you here."

All the diplomats spoke the French language, so no translator was needed.

The ambassadors examined the vast chamber, which had been created by the illustrious Eleanor of Aquitaine in the 11th century. The lofty stone ceiling, with its innumerable ornaments and the painted Valois coats-of-arms, invoked admiration in them. The walls were swathed with tapestries, depicting scenes of life from Eleanor's merry and chivalrous court.

Everyone's eyes were glued to the King of France. His expression like that of a Roman triumphator, his regality was emphasized by his doublet of purple brocade, embroidered with gold and diamonds. Upon his head, there was a majestic crown, with a large diamond in the fleur-de-lis at the top of the arches, as well as hundreds of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires.

A Swedish ambassador spoke in a heavily accented French. "My sovereign, King Gustav of Sweden, is most delighted to sign the treaty with France against the bellicose Habsburgs. The emperor's brutal attack on France, under the false pretense of seeking revenge for his sister's death against Your Majesty, has showed that the Spanish are dangerous for every honest ruler."

The monarch displayed his knowledge of the Swedish affairs. "I'm glad to be Sweden's ally. My fellow king, Gustav, liberated his country from the Danes. Since then, he has worked hard to make the Crown more powerful. I wish him to have a long and prosperous reign."

The man gushed, "King Gustav has the highest opinion of Your Majesty. He has always been impressed by your country's glorious culture. Without a shadow of a doubt, the French court is the most enlightened one in the whole of Christendom."

Gesturing towards his courtiers, François boasted, "They all call me a French Zeus, who has brought the light of knowledge into the darkness that once filled medieval France."

A hubbub of joyful voices came from the assemblage; they adored their sovereign.

The ruler moved his gaze to the ambassador who represented the Elector of Saxony. "I'm most pleased to see the envoy from the leader of _the Schmalkaldic League_ at my court."

The diplomat from Saxony affirmed, "Your Majesty, the pleasure is all ours. My liege lord, His Highness Johann Frederick, has been horrified by the barbaric actions of the Imperial army in Arles and Tours. Please, accept our sincere condolences on the deaths of so many brave Frenchmen, who served you well and were not spared by the bloodthirsty Habsburgs."

A stab of pain ripped through the ruler's chest. "Their courageous souls must have found peace in heaven. I appreciate your master's sympathy to my subjects."

"That damned Carlos von Habsburg is at fault!" hissed the elector's ambassador. "My master is outraged that the emperor has invaded your kingdom. We are aware that Queen Eleanor died of natural causes. Her brother has committed a horrendous sin when he has accused Your Majesty of killing her so as to mask his real intension to overthrow you."

François tipped his head. "Carlos and I have been mortal foes since Pavia."

Another diplomat asserted in a German-accented French, "I represent Duke Ulrich of Württemberg, who has long been worried by the rising power of Emperor Carlos. The Spanish invasion of France and the emperor's lies prove that Carlos is not a good Christian."

The ambassador from the Duchy of Cleves entered the conversation. "His Highness, Duke John of Cleves and Count of Mark, sends his greetings to Your Majesty. We must combine forces to deal with the emperor's appetite for conquests. We will punish him for the immoral lies which he has heaped upon you – the most Christian Catholic monarch, who has demonstrated your benevolence in the decision to follow the course of religious tolerance in France."

The Valois ruler was satisfied that his approach to the religious affairs in France allowed him to secure the partnership of the German Protestant States and other countries, which reformed their Church. France's tolerance was his strategic, long-term game against the House of Habsburg, which intensified the erosive process of religious nature within the Holy Roman Empire. The king also understood that it was an effective way to keep his own countrymen in peace.

Leaning back in his throne, François smiled affably. "France is grateful for your master's desire to assist us in punishing the worst pestilence the world has ever seen – the emperor."

Accoutered in a doublet and hose of black tylsent, Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse, left his courtiers and approached the throne; his army had participated in the recent battles against the Spaniards. His presence added to the paramount importance of today's event.

Bowing deeply, Hesse addressed the diplomats in French. "I'm honored to be among the defenders of France. Years ago, I understood how sly and perilous Carlos von Habsburg is. The Lutheran reform in my lands has disturbed the peace of the Holy Roman Empire, earning for me the emperor's enmity; he would gladly charge me with heresy."

"But Carlos will not do that," François asserted.

Hesse predicted, "We will crush that thug with a protruding lip before he can cause more harm to those rulers who do not wish to depose other dynasties."

The French nobles bellowed, "We will destroy the emperor!"

"Misery to the Habsburgs!" roared the Protestant envoys.

With an air of imperious dignity about him, François proclaimed, "Our alliance will create a military, financial, and governance framework that shall ensure our key objective – the defeat of that villainous invader. Only together we are strong enough to counter a threat from him and the Habsburg family, and to safeguard the freedom and security of its member countries. We will defend any nation should it be threatened or attacked by any aggressor."

The throng exploded with applause, cursing the Spaniards.

"Let's make our friendship as solid as stone." The king's words closed the discourse.

The Norwegian ambassador was fetched. It had been pre-agreed before the audience that the Norwegian and Swedish diplomats would be together in the same room for as little time as possible. The deposition of the Danish-Norwegian King Christian II as regent of the Kalmar Union in Sweden by Gustav Vasa, who currently ruled Sweden, was still too fresh in the minds of the two opposing parties, so any misunderstanding or argument could re-open old sores.

Guillaume Poyet, the recently appointed Chancellor of France, brought a large parchment – the treaty for the Valois monarch and ambassadors to sign. The concourse assembled near the throne, where King François signed the document and stamped it with the Valois seal.

This was welcomed with acclamations and murmurings of joyful relief. Jocund strains proceeded from sackbut and psaltery. Caps and toques were flung into the air, for the French had just been reassured that they would be able to eject the Imperial forces from their country. A new historical alliance, called _the Grand Anti-Habsburg Coalition_ , was formed.

The King of France promulgated, "We shall wage war together and together make peace in the greatest confidence that we act only in our mutual interests."

The envoy from Norway affirmed in his barely understandable French, "Nothing will tear the fabric of our great alliance to pieces, regardless of our religious beliefs."

Hesse opined, "This alliance makes any further attack on France unthinkable."

Sadness flickered in the king's eyes. "Our land has been battered enough by the Spanish."

The diplomat from Saxony touched upon the topic that was sensational in Europe. "Your Majesty married Anne of England, who is a devout reformer. Will you permit freedom of religion in France so that people can practice their faith without government intervention?"

King François vocalized the only answer he could give. "France has always been one of the principal Catholic countries in Christendom. In spite of the interest of my enlightened subjects in new teachings, Catholicism has remained our predominant religion." He stilled for a moment to let it sink in. "I've allowed my wife, Queen Anne of France, to worship her faith in private. However, she must attend Masses and some other ecclesiastical rites as my queen."

The Saxonian man persevered, "Will you let Protestantism spread?"

The ruler shook his head. "I've made an exception only for my spouse."

Montmorency, Tournon, and other French advisors breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Hesse quizzed, "Will there be harsh persecutions of non-Catholics in France?"

"No," the monarch answered. "I punished the Protestants only once – after the Affair of the Placards. I've no intention to inflict suffering on those who are interested in reform."

François recollected the Affair of the Placards. In October 1534, anti-Catholic posters appeared in public places in Paris and several other cities. The placards had been posted on the door of the ruler's bedroom at Château d'Amboise, where François had resided at the time. The king had ordered a search for culprits. Antoine Marcourt, the author of the placards, had escaped to Switzerland, while many heretics had been either imprisoned or executed. Afterwards, the monarch continued the policy of religious tolerance. At present, there was no organized Protestant movement in France, and there were no signs that it would take shape in the near future.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Hesse muttered.

It was the only answer they could get, and it was enough for now.

"My friends!" The ruler's voice brought all conversations to a halt. "We have received marvelous news: the Turks have attacked Spanish ports and the Republic of Genoa. The Ottoman Empire has declared war upon the Holy Roman Empire. This will lead us to our victory!"

This elicited murmurings of delight and discontent from everyone. The establishment of France's diplomatic relations with the Ottoman Empire had caused quite a scandal in the Christian world. Every Catholic and reformer considered this alliance controversial, to say the least.

Stepping forward, the Norwegian man audaciously asked, "Will Your Majesty support the heathens if they attempt to conquer Vienna and the whole of Europe?"

"Never," ascertained the king. "They will be stopped, but so far they are helping."

Satisfied, the envoys smiled at the monarch's slyness. With mannered slowness, François rose from his throne, and everyone dropped into bows. The monarch strolled over to the exit.

Before the king exited, the congregation chorused, "Long Live King François!"

§§§

" _Mon amour_ ," the Duchess d'Étampes addressed her royal lover, stretching her body on the bed. "I've been waiting for you so impatiently that I cannot describe it."

Frowning at her, François divested himself of his doublet. A servant took it from him and was then dismissed, hurrying to leave his liege lord with the mistress.

As he froze in the middle of his bedroom, the King of France eyed his paramour. Clothed in a robe of golden taffeta lined with ermine, Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly rested on a wide, canopied bed, draped in the Oriental style with black and emerald brocade and topped with ostrich feathers. She locked her salacious gaze with the monarch's, beckoning him with a curl of her fingers.

Her melodious voice ebbed and flowed, a pulsing mass of prurient energy. "Come to me, my sovereign. Start a fire, and I shall be your amorous light, burning bright and forever."

At first, the king didn't move. "Anne, why did you come to Poitiers today?"

 _I do want Anne de Pisseleu, but she is only one of the many women whom I've bedded._ Such were the monarch's thoughts as he beheld the temptress, who still made his blood boil with lust, but whose personality nevertheless no longer attracted him. At times, the duchess' annoyance and her demanding nature irritated him like a burr under the saddle of a cavalry horse.

Confusion colored her countenance. "François, are you not happy to see me?"

He settled himself into a nearby armchair, decorated with leaves of acanthus. "I do not have enough time to write even to my family. My primary concern is the safety of my country."

Out of curiosity, she queried, "How is your wife faring?"

The ruler measured her with a suspicious glance. " _Queen_ Anne is doing well. I pray that she and our child will be fine. Her health is being monitored by my best doctors."

"I heard that the queen had lost two babies. With her sad history, she must be extremely careful." Although the royal paramour would never have done anything to trigger her namesake's miscarriage, part of her hoped that her rival would suffer another similar setback.

"I'm aware of what happened to _my Anne_ during her… erm… life with Henry. I consulted with my physician, who told me that miscarriages are common, and that they might occur early in pregnancy or a bit later. My first wife, Claude, miscarried once, but she nonetheless birthed me many children. With God's blessing, Anne will carry our babe to term."

His response irked Madame de Pisseleu. The king had not only mentioned his pregnant consort, but had also referred to her as _'Queen Anne'_ and _'my Anne'_. It did not sit well with the mistress that he was so worried about his spouse and their unborn child. _Is François developing affection for that English slattern? For many years, he was so smitten with me that he gladly made me his queen and wife in all but name, despite not being faithful to me. Is my power over François waning?_ The duchess gritted her teeth in an attempt to swallow her terror.

Anne climbed out of bed and walked to the ruler, swaying her hips. The carnal aura about her was like that about Messalina, the third wife of the Roman emperor Claudius, who had led such a lewd life that she had besmirched herself with the seed of her numberless lovers. Anne de Pisseleu was a stunning seductress, whose one glance or smile made a man crave to pump himself into her with the desperation of a dying warrior yearning to have his last rites.

"My most magnificent king," his chief mistress called him with absolute adoration. "The Almighty will bless your new marriage with many sons and daughters."

He sighed. "If it is God's will, then it will happen."

Anne tilted her head to one side. " _Mon amour_ , if a woman loves a man deeply, she is jealous of him." She smiled enticingly. "And you are the sense of my whole life!"

"Are you really so devoted to me?" A flicker of guilt was prominent in his gaze.

"Of course, I am, François. How can you doubt that?"

Now he was flirting with her. "Do you worship me as much as Venus did her lovers?"

"You are the only man in my life, _mon amour_! You are my soulmate! I've always been faithful to you since you made me yours!" Lies slipped out of her mouth with ease.

He believed her, but said as if warning her, "If I learned that you slept with someone else since I first bedded you all those years ago, you would have felt my wrath."

The ardent enthusiasm of Anne de Pisseleu's confession went out of her features, blown by a sudden gust of fright. _No! François cannot know anything about my affairs… He does not suspect that one of his councilors is still my lover. And he cannot know that his own relative knew me carnally._ Then the duchess stifled these fears, though with effort. Her sister, Péronne, loved her dearly and promised to hide her indiscretions, so her secrets would not be unveiled.

Adrenaline rushed through the Duchess d'Étampes, mingled with her determination to paint herself in the ruler's eyes whiter than the color immaculate white. Taking a step to him, she placed a hand over her heart. "I do love you, François. You can never marry me, but I am content to be your maîtresse-en-titre. You are my God and my sovereign, and I would sacrifice my own life just to let you live and breathe for another moment so that you can kiss me again."

Desire inundated his loins, making the ruler pleasurably and painfully alert. He grabbed his paramour and kissed her hard on the mouth. His actions banished all of her previous fears, and Anne kissed him back with an insane eagerness that propelled her to tear the collar of her magenta rose gown, trimmed with multicolored lace. She groaned like a petted cat as his lips moved to her neck and then down to her breast, which he liberated from her gown and then sucked at it.

François did the same to the other breast. "Anne… lovely Anne…"

Cupping his face, the harlot provoked him with a frivolous talk. "My king, claim me as yours until you are so tired that you cannot submerge yourself into my depths anymore."

"You are mine!" The ruler pushed her towards the bed.

His paramour clambered onto the mattress and stood on her fours, swaying her bottom. Installing himself behind her, he lifted her robe. She moaned and wriggled as his fingers caressed her opening and stroked her slim hips before drawing to the laces of his hose.

"I like satisfying all your whims, François."

"Do it now, then," the king muttered, letting his hose drop to the carpet.

As he slid into her from the back, Anne arched herself to meet the invasion. In the grip of his overpowering need for release, François could barely get close enough or deep enough as he pumped into his lover again and again, his every thrust harder than the one before.

He fell next to her on the bed, interlinking his hand with hers. Her own hips fell, spent, to the mattress, and she let out a long, heated breath, satisfied that he was so passionate with her tonight. For a short time, the lovers rested in silence, until Anne jerked him to her, tore apart his shirt, and feasted kisses upon his bare chest. Then their carnal dance started again, passion sparking and igniting like a raging inferno, then ebbing away until their senses recovered.

François kissed her nose. "You possess a talent in pleasing me, Anne."

His chief mistress licked his throat. "My dearest Majesty!"

The Duchess d'Étampes indulged his appetites for hours. She was one of the few of his lovers with whom François acted as an absolute libertine in bed, and with whom he tried each and every caress, intimate pose, and way of lovemaking. In his ardor, he had been somewhat restrained in bed with the gentle Queen Claude and most of his other paramours, and he would not have offered them to do some totally indecent things, which he frequently enjoyed with Madame de Pisseleu. The duchess was the king's Messalina who, François believed, belonged only to him.

§§§

With first rays of light, the ruler left his mistress asleep. He went to his private chambers, where he worked and received his councilors and diplomats for unofficial audiences. Its walls swathed in silk-threaded tapestries depicting scenes from Eleanor of Aquitaine's life, the room had a high, domed ceiling; a fire crackled in the hearth, banishing the December chill.

As François observed sunrise above the ice-covered Clain River, the mental image of Queen Anne Boleyn resurfaced, and with it a recollection of their wedding night. _Anne was heart-stoppingly beautiful, as she lay naked on the bed, afraid of the consummation. I would have given anything for a second in my wife's arms, but not in my mistress'._ Words were of no use to explain his consort's odd presence in his inner realm, for he was puzzled with his feelings.

Since their parting, the monarch's heart was shrouded in a melancholic light, as though he were living in gray twilight. His adventures in bed with Anne de Pisseleu had not improved his mood. Yet, every time he thought of his queen, the waters of his life's river surged through his veins at a rapid pace, swelling and cresting into a vortex of inner tumult, which he masterfully concealed. It was a storm driven by the winds of his fears – would his matrimony with Anne ever find a safe harbor in the calm waters of their camaraderie, if not affection?

At the knock on the door, François uttered his permission to enter. Anne de Montmorency slipped inside, his expression sleepy; he was holding a candle in his hand.

"What, Monty?" enquired the king absently.

Bowing, Montmorency saw that his sovereign still wore the nightclothes. "Your Majesty, Madame Adrienne d'Estouteville, Countess de Saint-Pol and de Chaumont, is here."

The king gaped at him. "What? She must be in Normandy."

"She arrived an hour earlier; she has an urgent matter to discuss with you."

"Have my grooms bring my garments. Then show her in."

In the next thirty minutes, the royal servants aided François to get dressed in an Italianate attire of blue velvet, richly laced with gold and trimmed with ermine. After a morning washing and dressing routine, the monarch invited his unexpected guest to his private chambers.

Adrienne d'Estouteville arrived shortly and curtsied. "Good morning, Your Majesty."

"You may leave," the king dismissed Montmorency, who swept a bow and obeyed.

As the door closed, François commenced, "Rise, Madame. What did you leave your estates and risked your life traveling through France during the invasion?"

Adrienne informed forthrightly, "Your child is in my womb."

His brow shot up. "I beg your pardon?"

Her visage whitened in either fear or indignation. "Your Majesty voyaged through the French provinces, including Normandy, in order to recruit men into the royal army. Do you not remember the five nights you spent with me two months earlier in my castle in Estouteville? My husband was away, so we both did not object to succumb to our passions."

François perused the young lady, who froze in the center. Her countenance shy, Adrienne was quite short in stature, with auburn hair, narrow forehead, and small, gray eyes. Attired in a yellow riding habit trimmed with black lace on the sleeves, she was not a beauty, but she held herself with awesome dignity and grace. In some aspects, Adrienne reminded him of the young Françoise de Foix, who nonetheless was far more beautiful. _Adrienne d'Estouteville has class! My wife, Anne, possesses style and class as well, just as Françoise de Foix does. This woman also has her own charm. When I look at such women, I think that Anne de Pisseleu lacks class._

"I remember our short, _consensual_ liaison. But I'm aware that your spouse returned home sometime after my departure, so I have to ask: are you certain that it is my child?"

Tears filled her eyes, for he had hurt her by asking her about the paternity of _their_ child. "I swear by all I hold dear that it is your baby," she panted every word out, her cheeks red with embarrassment. "My husband did not touch me for more than six months."

"I believe you, and don't be afraid." The king's voice was silky.

She blinked away the tears. "Thank you. You are very kind, my liege."

"Let me help you, Madame." He walked her to a coach draped in green satin.

As he aided her to settle herself comfortably, Adrienne admired the monarch's handsome features and his perfect attire. "I'm sorry for disturbing Your Majesty."

 _I've missed even the sight of our king_ , Adrienne remarked to herself. _François de Valois is a magnificent man!_ In 1534, she had entered into matrimony with François de Bourbon, Count de Saint-Pol and de Chaumont, but in a month or so, she had discovered that she _could never love the count_. Adrienne tolerated him in bed only because it was her conjugal duty to be his in all senses. She had agreed to become the monarch's paramour because François was the first man whose sight caused her heart to leap with longing for a merry life. Adrienne did not love the ruler, but she was attracted to his physical prowess and his chivalry, not to his kingly power.

François kissed her hand. "There is no reason for you to apologize."

She regretted that it was just a courteous kiss. "I… I feel so… ashamed of myself."

A startling kindness was etched into his countenance. "It is so rare that I see someone at my court or any of my subjects embarrassed with what they feel or do." He smiled at her in that charismatic and charming way that caused women to be besotted with him. "You are carrying a little Valois, and there is no shame in this. Any baby is God's blessing."

She found herself smiling. "I want this child." Her hand flew to her stomach.

"Good," the monarch said with evident relief. "I can easily guess what is tormenting you, Madame. Your husband, Monsieur de Saint-Pol, will accept the child as his – I shall make sure of that. He will treat both you and the baby with respect, and he will take care of you both."

Adrienne assumed that the French sovereign could have many bastards, but he had never acknowledged any of them, and now she comprehend why it was so. "As you command."

Later, King François accompanied Adrienne to Montmorency, who pledged to safely escort her back to Estouteville. As the husband of his former paramour governed the province of Dauphiné since 1527, Saint-Pol rarely visited his wife in Normandy, and his union was not a happy one. The monarch resolved to keep the man far from his spouse, but he would need to speak to his subject so as to issue all the necessary orders for him regarding Adrienne and the baby.

The ruler's mind drifted to his pregnant consort. Like Anne, now another of the numerous women, with whom he had slept occasionally, was pregnant with his baby. In the past, the king had two wives and many mistresses, having been unfaithful to all of them. Yet, never before had François been stabbed with guilt as if by daggers at the thought of the result of his amours – his illegitimate issue. The ruler hoped that his wife would never ask him about his bastards.

* * *

 ** _December 25, 1536, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France_**

The black fingers of night were reaching out across the winter firmament, engulfing the last rays of sun and deepening the chill in the air. Stars and a crescent moon illuminated the snow-blanketed gardens and town streets with pale light; the same stars which years earlier had shone above teenaged Anne Boleyn who had enjoyed the splendors of the French court.

As the moon disappeared behind a bank of clouds, the sky's darkness became akin to the one that reigned in Queen Anne's universe. Tonight, her soul wept like that of a bereaved person, and a sinking sensation of despair in the pit of her stomach was creeping over her.

"Oh, God," gasped Anne as she snuggled under the silk covers. "This babe cannot die like its brothers…" Her voice was thin, like a woodwind instrument with an old reed.

Although it was Christmas, the Queen of France was bedridden, after the heavy bleeding she had sustained two hours earlier. The festivities had been cancelled due to the frightening events with Anne. The king's children all waited outside in the antechamber. In the meantime, many courtiers crowded in the hallway near the entrance to the royal apartments.

Doctor Jean Fernel stood near the queen's bed. Anne was so pallid that her skin seemed nearly translucent, like milk that had been watered down. Even her lips were as colorless as the carved alabaster chest pieces, which she often used while playing chess with her ladies.

"The baby lives," the physician declared. "But there is still a possibility of miscarriage."

"Thanks be to the Almighty!" Queen Marguerite of Navarre cried in heartfelt tones.

Standing next to the bed, the king's sister beheld her sister-in-law, her heart palpitating with terror. She had arrived at court yesterday to attend the Christmas banquet. As her brother could not leave his army and, hence, remained in Poitiers, the task to deliver this news to his spouse had fallen to her. However, Anne's incident precluded everyone from celebrating.

"Amen," Françoise de Foix seconded the sentiment. Reaching towards the bowl of warm water, which one of the ladies had brought, she dipped a cloth in it, dabbing at her mistress' brow.

"God save the queen and the baby," others intoned, crossing themselves.

Marguerite sent away the Countess de Châteaubriant and the others.

Anne bemoaned, "The Lord cannot be so cruel… He cannot take my child from me."

Her sister-in-law allayed, "Anne, your ordeal is over."

The physician pledged, "We will take the best care of Your Majesty."

§§§

Marguerite of Navarre and Doctor Fernel walked out of the bedroom to the antechamber, where the royal family and the queen's ladies awaited news. Marguerite wanted to talk to the medic in the presence of her brother's children, who all rushed to their aunt.

"Tell me the truth," demanded the monarch's sister. "Only the truth!"

Dauphin Henri looked as frigid as always. Yet, his voice was laced with notes of worry as he asked, "What is your prognosis for Her Majesty and the child?"

"Does the baby live?" chorused Prince Charles and Princess Marguerite.

Doctor Fernel dithered for a handful of moments before answering, "Her Majesty has almost suffered a miscarriage. I would be guilty of a falsehood if I had assured you that she would carry a child to term. Nevertheless, if we take necessary precautions and if she stays in bed until her labor, she will have a good chance to deliver a healthy child."

"Poor Queen Anne," young Marguerite murmured.

Charles promised, "I'll pray for the queen and the baby every day."

A sigh wafted from Henri's lips. "I do not want my sibling dead."

As she regarded her brother's offspring, the Navarrese queen smiled at them in turn. She was especially pleased that the Dauphin of France, who had the most conflicted feelings over her brother's matrimony with Anne, was so concerned about his stepmother's condition.

Marguerite nodded. "No exertion, distress, and excitement for Anne."

The physician inclined his head. "Exactly. The queen needs a good diet and as much rest as possible. Even if she is bored, she cannot leave the bed for her and the child's safety."

Charles questioned, "Can the queen miscarry later?"

"How do you assess this probability?" inquired the dauphin.

Fernel shrugged apologetically. "I'm afraid I do not know. It is in God's hands."

Marguerite wondered, "Everything was fine yesterday and today in the morning. Three hours earlier, Anne suddenly felt pains, and her skirts were stained with blood."

The medic speculated, "I've watched Her Majesty's pregnancy for several months. She did not have any complications until today, but stress could have caused them."

 _Something serious must have happened today,_ deduced Marguerite. She had last seen her sister-in-law four hours earlier, when they had played cards and dice, and Anne had emptied Marguerite's personal treasury after winning most of the games. Anne had been in an elated frame of mind until she had been given her newly arrived correspondence. Maybe some bad tidbits had caused her sister-in-law to experience the despair that had cleaved her chest in two.

"I'd like to visit Her Majesty tomorrow," Princess Marguerite verbalized her wish.

"And so do I," Charles joined.

Henri proposed, "I can come to her, too, and we can play cards."

The medic nodded. "Her Majesty will need someone to keep her company and her spirits up in months to come. But I reiterate that she must be guarded from strong emotions."

"We will take care of her," Marguerite vowed. Everyone nodded their agreement.

§§§

In the matter of minutes, the Queen of Navarre returned to the bedchamber. She found her sister-in-law asleep, and tiptoed over to a rosewood chest of drawers in the corner. She pulled out the upper drawer, where, she knew, Anne kept her letters. After sifting through the documents, her attention was captured by the folded parchment stamped with the Tudor seal.

Marguerite unrolled the paper and began reading. As her eyes skimmed through the text, her features paled and then purpled, as a kernel of ire simmered in her breast.

 _The Boleyn harlot,_

 _I've long realized that you feigned your love for me and bewitched me. Your marriage to that French bastard proved that you have never cared for me even in the slightest._

 _I should not have spared your worthless life. A whorish bitch such as yourself has merited the most gruesome end and eternal damnation in the afterlife._

 _Elizabeth will curse you once she grows up and understands that her mother betrayed her father with numerous lovers. I'll ensure that she will know the truth about her mother's past so that when she becomes queen of a foreign kingdom, she will not shame her husband. Jane will be the role model of a dignified, pious, and noble-minded queen for Elizabeth._

 _Henry Rex_

An incensed Marguerite tore the parchment into ribbons and flung them up into the air. As they landed onto the floor in a heap, she trampled them with her feet.

The French ruler's sister had never believed that Catherine of Aragon had consummated her first marriage to the long-departed Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales. Thus, Marguerite had loathed Henry of England since the Great Matter. Repudiations of queens and casual lovemakings with hundreds of women – these seemed to be Henry Tudor's main activities. After what the man had done to Anne, Marguerite's contempt for Henry was as thick in her veins as her blood.

Fury reared up within Marguerite. "Damn that iron-hearted Tudor beast to hell!"

"My baby…" Anne's voice was no more than a whisper, scarcely to be heard.

The ruler's sister flicked her gaze to the queen's face tinged with all-absorbing terror.

Marguerite's vision went red around the edges at the thought that Henry was again the reason for her misery. "You should be resting, my dear. What keeps you awake into the night?"

"I just cannot sleep…" Anne swallowed a rising sob.

The Queen of Navarre strode across, lit more candles, and set them over the fireplace. Then she crossed the room and seated herself on the bed. "I've learned what has happened, Anne."

Fat tears trickled down Anne's face, like drops of water from the petals of a lotus. "He hates me so much that he will poison Elizabeth against me."

Soon after Anne's arrival in France, Marguerite had suggested that they drop formalities, and Anne had supported her initiative. They had known each other for years, and the young Anne had once been Marguerite's favorite in the Queen of Navarre's literary circle.

Marguerite emanated black anger. "That accursed man contacted you to hurt you. He is raving with rage because you married his archrival. The fact that you are carrying another king's child drives him to the point where he would gladly kill both François and you."

Anne's heart swooped like a sparrow winging from a branch. "That does not make it easier for me. I cannot bear a thought that Elizabeth will abhor me in the future."

Her sister-in-law squeezed her hand that felt clammy to her touch. "That mongrel's letter is the bravado of a jealous man. Your wedding drove him to the brink of insanity, because he lost the very woman with whom he has been obsessed for years to his bitter rival."

The Queen of France didn't share her opinion. "That obsession faded a while ago, and now he loathes me. In his eyes, I must be held accountable for all his misfortunes."

Marguerite snarled, "Henry is the worst bastard who has ever stepped upon the earth."

A shower of tears deluged Anne's cheeks. "He will teach my daughter to despise me."

The monarch's sister shifted on the bed and embraced a distraught Anne.

Anne buried her face into her sister-in-law's shoulder. "I did love Henry more than life itself, but he betrayed me in the worst possible way and deprived me of my George. He separated me from my Elizabeth. Now he strives to break my spirit, for I'm untouchable in all other ways."

The lamentations bubbled out of the French queen in a rush, for there was too much grief in her. _I loved Henry more than life itself, but he betrayed me_ _in the worst possible way…_ Usually, she was reserved, but now, nothing could stop her confessions. She had lost her footing in the world and could not regain it, for everything appeared dreadful, while faith had deserted her.

Stroking her hair, Marguerite murmured, "It is a mystery to me why some women are so eager to be with intemperate and fickle men. They know that such men might be terrible for them. Yet, they do it anyway, because they are thrilled at the thought that they may be the one to tame such a man and become his greatest love. But even if he treats you like gold at first, his true colors will eventually show, and your heart will be broken into countless pieces."

"Yes." A choking sob erupted from François' spouse.

"Marriage to a tyrant such as Henry Tudor is a barely unendurable existence."

Anne's sobs were gradually subsiding. "After our wedding, I was certain that I was the queen of Henry's heart. I intruded where the average woman would not have ventured. I thought that he appreciated my character and valued my intelligence, but I was mistaken. Nonetheless, I stood my ground courageously, intent upon having the way of what I felt was right and just."

"That was one of the reasons why Henry got rid of you."

More tears spilled down the Queen of France's cheeks. "Precisely. That is why he was attracted to that Seymour strumpet, who is nothing compared to Catherine and me."

Marguerite was startled that Anne fairly assessed the strengths of her dead Spanish rival. "Set your mind at rest. Think of the child and the harm you might cause it."

Anne pulled herself together. "Thank you for talking sense into me. I must give a prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord for preserving my baby's life."

Marguerite was awash with relief that she had calmed down. "Henry's inability to treat women well is explained by his lack of chivalry. My brother is Henry's opposite. A rich intellect and a fine soul are necessary attributes of a beautiful personality, like François' and yours."

"I do not know." Caught in a whirl of memories, Anne lapsed into silence.

Neither François de Valois nor Henry Tudor was the epitome of Anne Boleyn's maidenly reveries, which had long evaporated in the haze of Lethe. Years ago, Henry Percy had caused her youthful heart to flutter with amatory dreams like a garden of butterflies. Much to her chagrin, both men whom she had once loved had betrayed her: Percy had voted her guilty at her trial, while her former husband had nearly destroyed her and killed her brother. At present, no man had power over Anne, and there was no room for love in her life – only for ambition and vengeance.

Yet, to her surprise, Anne had a feeling of longing to meet a congenial male companion, who would see in her not only a trophy with attractive appearance, like she had once been for Henry, but also the human being, the friend, the comrade, and the strong personality. Against her will, her mind floated to François, and no talk, tune, or poem could convey her tangled emotions. _Words are useless when it comes to my second marriage. Even worse – they are misleading._

Even though she attempted to block it out, Marguerite sensed her anguish. "You and your child will be fine. Our benevolent Holy Father will protect you both."

"It is all my fault. I should not have been so nervous."

"Shhh," Marguerite hushed her. "I'll ask François to come as soon as possible. Maybe he can leave the French troops under Montmorency's command for some time."

In a few minutes, the Queen of Navarre invited Doctor Fernel, who concocted a drink of calming herbs for the French queen to reduce her deep-seated anxiety.

 _I loved Henry more than life itself, but he betrayed me_ _in the worst possible way._

Those words seeped into the lonely chambers of Anne's soul, filling them with arctic chill and a heartache beyond bearing. But as Marguerite's fingers soothingly danced through her mane, vision of François blazed through Anne's consciousness, bringing with it serenity.

After falling asleep, Anne alternated between dreams of meeting her beloved Elizabeth again and those of her future baby. She saw herself pass an affectionate thumb over her future baby's cheek, and in such moments, the world seemed right and just. Yet, as a nightmare gripped her, and the all-too-familiar darkness and despondency returned to her universe. An unsatisfied craving for a full life intensified in Anne's entire being, her inner unrest resulting from the lack of it. Perhaps her soul was too complex to adjust itself to the slimy woof of harsh reality.

§§§

On the same night, torrents of rain with hail began to pelt the palace. In a small room on the ground floor, a young woman stood close to a man, their complexion swarthy, their hair dark brown, their skin light olive, and their hazel eyes brisk; they looked like Italians.

"Sebastiano, you are so stupid," the lady started in a voice tinctured with scorn.

Her companion was Sebastiano, Count de Montecuccoli. In his maroon satin doublet, garnished with gold to an excessive degree, he resembled an upstart who had made a fortune and was now showing off his riches. His unattractive countenance, with wide-set eyes and pudgy nose, bespoke his guilt at his failure. Montecuccoli had come to France together with Catherine de' Medici, and then he had been appointed secretary to the late Dauphin François.

She hissed, "That slut has not lost her child. You must have used too little poison."

"I… I can try… again," he stammered.

Condemnation flickered across her face. "You are a damned idiot! In the _previous_ case, you used a sufficient dose to kill _our dear prince_ , but today you failed. We need her baby dead because if it is a boy, our position will weaken. Now we cannot make a new attempt."

Another woman walked inside. Arrogance, boredom, and superiority seemed to have carved themselves into her perfect features, making her stunning beauty cold and distant – the beauty of a star. Her blonde tresses were smoothly coiled to form an elegant chignon that was secured with sapphire hairpins. In contrast to her, the first lady with bulging eyes did not possess eye-catching prettiness.

"Now we can only pray that the child will be a girl," the blonde woman interjected after shutting the door. "Whether _we_ succeed or not, I cannot imagine a good outcome for us. If we are caught or someone starts to suspect us, they might also uncover _our other conspiracy_."

"Forgive me," implored the Count de Montecuccoli.

"Pleading does not suit you," the newly arrived lady uttered acridly.

The second lady gushed, "Our previous success proves our mission's power in the face of hardship which France experiences now due to the king's unholy religious tolerance."

A hot wave of color burned in his cheeks. "I shall act in accordance with your will."

The two women stormed out. Night had long befallen, wrapping the town in its opaque blanket, so the corridors were lit by both pendant oil lamps and torches. Outside, lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and the snow was falling from the heavens like silvery tears. There were no people in the hallways, but they were so cautious that in silence, they tiptoed towards a long, wide corridor connected with the great hall, and before reaching it, they parted their ways.

* * *

 _I hope you like this chapter. Please leave a review, which will encourage me to keep going._

 _King François met with Protestant and Lutheran ambassadors. They signed a treaty against the House of Habsburg, so now France officially has many allies with Protestant nations. This alliance will help France defeat the invaders and expel them from the country. But as you see, all of the diplomats are thinking of religious tolerance, asking François whether the Protestants will be persecuted in France. And there is a matter of Queen Anne's religious beliefs…_

 _Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly came to Poitiers because she wanted to be with her royal lover. She always comes to François because of her obsession with him, and because of her desire to ensure that no other woman becomes as dear to the monarch as she is. Now you know that François is an absolute libertine in bed with her, so you understand that their relationship is based primarily on lust._

 _I'm sure that you are angry with François because one of his former lovers – Adrienne d'Estouteville, Countess de Saint-Pol and de Chaumont – is pregnant with his child, which was obviously conceived after the king's wedding to Anne. But you must understand that now François has no reason to be faithful to his wife who can barely tolerate him. In history, Adrienne d'Estouteville was a mother of François' only acknowledged illegitimate son, Nicholas d'Estouteville, who was born in 1545._

 _Fortunately, Queen Anne Boleyn did not lose her child, although she sustained quite a heavy bleeding. Marguerite and Anne believe that Anne's almost miscarriage was trigged by her distress caused by Henry's horrible letter. But at the end of the chapter, you can deduce that Anne's ordeal was caused by poison which several conspirators managed to put into Anne's food or drink. Perhaps you can guess who the conspirators are; Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli was introduced in this chapter, and there are some hints at their other plot. The poisoning plot will not be uncovered any time soon._

 _King Henry's letter to Anne is horrendous, but it is the only way he can try to hurt her because she is untouchable in all other ways. This letter is Henry's response to the painful fact of her pregnancy._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	14. Chapter 13: A Show of Affection

**Chapter 13: A Show of Affection**

 ** _January 16, 1537, Greenwich Palace, London, England_**

"A messenger has arrived from York," apprised Thomas Cromwell tonelessly.

The royal chief minister shuffled his feet in discomfort. At first, his sovereign did not pay any heed to him, as if he were not in the king's private chamber. Instead, Henry sat at his desk, laden with books and parchments, holding a quill and a sheet of paper in his hand.

As his liege lord flicked his gaze to him, Cromwell shivered in mortal dread. Vehement fury flashed across the royal aquamarine glare that was now nearly opaque, like the minister's black robes. Cromwell felt as if he were looking death in the eye, wondering whether the king had exuded such indescribable enmity when he had last met with Anne Boleyn in the Tower.

Henry inquired, "What do you know about the uprising?"

Cromwell emitted a sigh before voicing the tidbits about the unfortunate turn of events. "The discontent of the Catholics with our religious and fiscal policies has spread throughout the north of the country like wildfire. Thousands of people in Yorkshire and Lincolnshire are involved in the rebellion. The royal forces under the Dukes of Norfolk's command were defeated a week earlier. Our soldiers lack weapons and the desire to fight against their countrymen. Moreover, many insurgents are experienced in battle, having fought the Scots in the past."

"What do they want in order to disperse?" Henry bounced to his feet so swiftly that his stool and cushion both overturned. He commenced pacing and hand wringing.

"Their temerity is absolutely shameless." Gathering his courage, Cromwell listed their demands. "The cancellation of _the Ten Articles_. The end to the Dissolution of the monastic houses. The change of the taxation policy. The repeal of _the Statute of Uses_."

Ceasing to move in the middle of the room, the ruler was holding onto his temper by a tiny thread. "Cromwell, you assured me that most of my subjects are delighted to have escaped the Pope's clutches. You convinced me that they would be receptive to our novelties."

His inner realm tinged with consternation, Cromwell defended himself to the best of his ability. "They all signed the Oath of Supremacy, and by doing so, acknowledged Your Majesty as Supreme Head of the Church and Clergy of England. Even if some do not support our policies, they must comply with their king's decisions, just as most of the nobles have done."

"Thousands have risen against me! Only craft can put an end to their treasonous actions!"

Grasping the lifeline his sovereign had tossed him, the other man offered, "Robert Aske's call to arms is not as perilous as it might seem at first glance. Let's pretend that we have accepted their terms, and later, we will crush all of them like bugs underfoot."

In a heartbeat, the monarch grabbed Cromwell's collar and shook him violently. "See to it that it is done. If we do not quash the riot, I'll have your head." He then stormed out.

With hindsight, Cromwell thought that he had gone too far in his religious zeal and rushed the dissolution of the religious houses. As a result, at present, he needed to stave off the threat of his execution, looming over him like an axe. He must circumvent the rebels, and an evil plan had formed in his head. It was vital for him to remain composed, for panicking would be compounding the already great folly he had committed by acting too ruthlessly and precipitately when he had sent his loyal commissioners to shut down nearly all of the abbeys and convents.

His mind drifted to his last confrontation with the Lady Anne. She had spluttered outrage when she had castigated him for giving his luxurious rooms to the Seymours. _She had said: "You have placed yourself in very great danger. I still possess the power to crush you._ Although she was no longer the Queen of England, her words echoed through the minister's head like a prophecy of his demise. After all, during one of their arguments over the disbandment of the monasteries, Anne had predicted that one day, Cromwell would have an ignominious end on the block.

Cromwell crossed himself. "God help me deal with this nightmare."

§§§

"No!" cried the Princess Elizabeth. Her mood was foul from the moment she had opened her eyes half an hour earlier. "I'll not wear this dress! You cannot make me!"

Lady Margaret Bryan, the girl's governess, heaved a sigh. This reminded her of the scene that had taken place months ago. At the time of Queen Anne's arrest, Elizabeth had been at court, but the Tudor monarch had enjoined to keep the child away from him and the public eye. The girl had struggled as her attendant had attempted to dress her in a cloak and hat. They had all thought that Elizabeth would be declared a bastard, so they had been too strict with her at the time.

Much to everyone's astonishment, Elizabeth had remained legitimate under English law. Personally, Lady Bryan was overjoyed that the girl had not lost her royal status. Yet, this also meant that her charge must be treated with the utmost respect, while at the same time ensuring that she was taught to behave like a princess. However, since her mother's exile, Elizabeth had become so intemperate and so irritable that her ladies did not know how to handle her.

Margaret coaxed, "Her Majesty Queen Jane gave you this lovely gown as a sign of her benevolent intentions. It will be awfully disrespectful to her if you do not wear it today."

Elizabeth shook her head vigorously. "I hate the queen and her gifts!"

Terrified, her governess veered her gaze to the door that, to their luck, was closed. "Your Highness, please do not say that! Her Majesty is a good woman! She is your queen!"

The girl persevered, "Lady Jane made my mama go away."

"She is your father's wife!" stressed Margaret. "You have to address her properly."

"I will not!" Elizabeth threw the gown to the floor.

Now they were in the antechamber to the princess' bedroom. After Elizabeth's arrival at court yesterday, they had been lodged at the apartments close to the monarch's.

A bewildered Elizabeth looked past the heavy mahogany furniture, which had replaced the gilded items she remembered from the time when her beloved mother had been the Queen of England. The walls were swathed with tapestries depicting the history of the Tudor court, and the girl could recognize her own father on some of them. Yet, the whole room seemed unfamiliar to her, because the palace had been renovated and refurbished after Anne's arrest.

Elizabeth approached a window, climbed a chair, and stared out. Snowfall was increasing every moment, so the ground and the gardens were all white. She liked the color white, but these days, her black mood contrasted too sharply with it. Her gaze dashed to the firmament that was a leaden gray, and she begged the Lord to let her feel her mother's arms around her once more.

Usually, her visits to court had meant feeling happy and loved, for she was always agog to be reunited with her parents. The king – her papa, as she had referred to him in the past – would lift Elizabeth in his arms and twirl her around, until squeals of laughter rolled out of her and she was dizzy with joy. This time, everything was different: Elizabeth did not want to see her father, who had taken her mother away from her. _All I wish is to be with my mama,_ the girl mused.

The old woman went to the girl and stopped behind her. "I beseech you to listen to me. Your mother had to leave England, but it is not Queen Jane's fault. You must accept that Her Majesty is your stepmother, and you should befriend her."

Elizabeth jumped down from the chair. "I cannot."

Margaret insisted, "You must! You are so fortunate to still be a princess."

Elizabeth's control slithered. "I want my mama! The king has separated us!"

Her heart breaking for her distraught charge, Lady Bryan stepped forward and pulled her into a comforting hug. Elizabeth dissolved into sobs and struggled against her, for she did not wish anyone to touch her, unless the person was Anne. Yet, her governess held her tight, pressing her to the chest, as if this embrace could protect Elizabeth from the savageries of the world.

"I need my mama!" wailed the princess as she buried her face into Margaret's chest.

A sense of helplessness enveloped the old woman. "My poor girl…"

Elizabeth wept in Margaret's embrace until there were no tears left, until her nose stuffed up and her eyelids swelled, until her breath came in short, staccato hiccups. Her small heart was broken into countless fragments, which only Anne could put back together.

Her sobs subsiding, the princess muttered, "Why is the king so cruel to me and mama?"

As Lady Bryan released her, Princess Elizabeth stepped back and surveyed her governess. The girl was surprised that the woman looked as though she was on the verge of a breakdown. Her governess always told her that a highborn lady, all the more a princess of the blood, must always be in control of her emotions, especially at court and in the presence of others.

Lady Bryan dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. "I'm sorry, but you cannot meet with the Lady Anne. Life is not fair to women who are powerless to change their fates." Her expression turned apologetic. "Your mother is gone from England for the rest of her life. No amount of crying, throwing tantrums, or begging the king to permit you to see her will bring her back."

Seeing fresh tears spill from Elizabeth's dark eyes, Margaret Bryan was contrite that she had explained the whole matter to the girl with a bluntness that was bordering on brusqueness. At the same time, she believed that being as straightforward as she could afford to be was the best approach in this case. The woman thought that Anne was innocent of all the allegations Cromwell had leveled against her, but the Tudor ruler was unlikely to ever change his mind.

Making her voice as gentle as she could, the governess continued, "You must comprehend that you must never speak of your mama again, especially in front of your father. Stop rejecting his love and saying something that might displease him. You must also respect your stepmother." A sigh fled from her. "Do this for your own good, Your Highness."

King Henry had already visited his youngest daughter at Hatfield several times since the girl's birthday in September. Every time Princess Elizabeth had refused to see him, and Margaret Bryan, together with the girl's ladies, had failed to convince her to be polite towards the monarch. The child had never been afraid to blame the ruler for her separation from Anne, and once her defiance had irked Henry to the point where he had been inclined to strike his daughter.

Elizabeth scrubbed the tears away from her cheeks. "I heard that His Majesty wanted to behead my mother. Will he want to cut off my head, too?"

Staring into the girl's clever eyes, Margaret found herself terrified. Elizabeth was still such a young child, not yet three, but she was old enough to know what being beheaded or executed meant. Normally, her phenomenal precociousness was a wonder in itself, but today it was not amusing: if she had ever said to the king something like that, he would be furious beyond measure.

"Your Highness!" Lady Bryan labored to hush her. "His Majesty would never do such a terrible thing to you, regardless of what your mother has or has not done. You are his flesh and blood, and he loves you so dearly that he would punish anyone who might harm you."

Having collected herself, Princess Elizabeth however assumed her bellicose demeanor towards her parent. "The king hurt me when he sent my mother away!"

Her governess attempted to talk sense into her again. "You might land in trouble if you continue defying His Majesty. Queen Anne does not wish you to suffer." She lowered her voice. "She wants you to be in your father's good graces so that you remain his heir."

This sobered the girl. "I'll do anything to please my mama."

Margaret let out a smile of relief. "Then you must do as I said."

"I shall." Elizabeth's firm voice was laced with resilience and strength, which were both atypical for a toddler. "I'll pretend that I love my father and his new… wife."

"You must do this, or the consequences will be severe for you and perhaps your mother. Promise me that you will behave well while meeting with Queen Jane and King Henry."

The girl muttered, "It is difficult."

Her governess stroke her red-gold hair. "I know, Your Highness." A sigh tumbled from her lips. "It would have been better if your mother had not been a queen and had not interfered with the course of history. She could have married some rich nobleman, one who would have worshiped the ground she walked upon and appreciated her intelligence."

A female voice interrupted their conversation. "Your Highness!"

They swiveled in unison to face Lady Margery Horseman, who walked in.

With a regal air about her, Princess Elizabeth slowly walked over to the visitor. As the woman stopped beside her, she sank into a deep curtsey before her beloved mistress' daughter.

"Rise," permitted Elizabeth. "Is it time to meet with _Their Majesties_?"

Lady Margaret Bryan, who stood behind the girl, was relieved. For the first time since the ruler's wedding to Jane Seymour, Elizabeth referred to the woman by her title. She prayed that the audience with the girl's mercurial father and her stepmother would go smoothly.

Straightening, Margery nodded. "Yes." In her hand, she had something wrapped in cloth of silver. "At first, I'll give you your mother's gift, which she sent you from France."

Elizabeth jumped in unalloyed exaltation. "My mama has been thinking of me!"

The women were both glad to see the child's mood brighten, like the sun escaping a cloud.

 _I'll keep my word I gave to Anne,_ thought Margery Horseman. _I'll take excellent care of Elizabeth._ She treasured her friendship with Anne, her loyalty to the current Queen of France being as fierce and unwavering as that of the most chivalrous knight in the entirety of Christendom. Although many of Anne's former ladies-in-waiting had given false testimonies against the former English queen, Margery had not betrayed her mistress. Soon after Anne's release from the Tower, Margery had managed to become Elizabeth's lady, just as she had promised to Anne.

Margery handed the gift to the toddler. "Take it, Your Highness."

Elizabeth unwrapped the object. A scintillating smile lit up her visage as a stunning, small sapphire necklace with a gold "ET" pendant, hanging from the center, came into view.

Smiling, Lady Bryan watched Margery fasten the necklace on her charge's neck. As soon as Lady Horseman had appeared in the princess' household, she had implored Margaret to allow her to take care of the girl. Being one of Anne's aunts, Margaret had eagerly agreed, and she had also supported Margery's initiative to let Anne keep in touch with her daughter.

Margery enlightened, "I've received a letter from your mother today. She asked me to give you this necklace and all the love she feels for you. She misses you wholeheartedly!"

Elizabeth's fingers caressed the sapphires. "I'll treasure it!"

Margaret Bryan volunteered, "We will tell the king that it is my gift."

"That is a good decision," Margery Horsman concurred. "His Majesty would not suspect anything, then. His Highness will be able to wear it without any trouble."

Tears of gratitude brimmed in the girl's eyes. "Thank you!"

Margery added, "Your mother wants you to be a good daughter to the king."

Elizabeth could not tear her gaze from the necklace. "I'll do whatever she wants."

Margery and Margaret traded hopeful glances that the girl would not rescind on her word.

Margaret affirmed, "Your Highness, we must dress you."

Elizabeth flicked her eyes to the gown on the floor. "It is ugly, but I'll wear it."

During the next hour, Elizabeth Tudor completed her ablutions with the assistance of her governess and several maids. Soon the princess was clad in a gown of beige brocade ornamented with Jane Seymour's favorite pearls, Anne's new gift glittering on her breast.

§§§

"Your Majesty!" Queen Jane cried as her husband entered her quarters.

King Henry strode past his wife without looking at her. He did not want to see the woman whom he had adored less than a year earlier. She was a failure as a wife because she had not conceived in the months which had followed their wedding. On top of that, now Henry thought that Jane was not pretty enough, or clever enough to hold the attention of a passionate, intelligent man such as himself. He wondered, _how could I marry such a plain and boring woman?_

"Rise, Jane," permitted the monarch as he stopped next to her.

His aloof voice stung her in the heart. "Thank you for your kindness, sire."

As the queen straightened, Henry stepped to her. Lifting her chin, he mock-chided, "You are strained in your spouse's presence. Has my presence filled you with trepidation?"

Uncertainty seized the queen, who had no clue as to why he had told her that. Had Henry insulted Jane for her lack of pregnancy? Had he attempted to intimidate her in order to keep her in her place? Had he taunted her, entertaining himself at her expense? She had an unsophisticated and ductile mind, so she could be easily influenced, which was why she was frequently browbeaten by the king and her brothers into doing things which she did not like and even hated.

The ruler's smile was ambiguous, but it still made a bouquet of hope blossom in her breast. Pushing her dark thoughts aside, Jane took a tentative step to him. _I should not have such unchaste thoughts of my beloved husband. Henry is an equitable, benevolent king, and he honored me by marrying me, a country girl of humble origins,_ she labored to convince herself.

"Your Majesty!" she exclaimed in blithesome accents. "You have come to me! Thank heavens! I was beside myself with anxiety! You were absent since the Christmas banquet."

Henry didn't reply straight away. His wife hoped that he would patch up their relationship after his return to court, even though she had given him no reason to be content in their matrimony. Her happiness at seeing him exasperated him like some intentional spitefulness of destiny. He stomped over to an ornately carved chair near the fireplace and seated himself there.

Blinking hard, Jane remained standing in the center of the room. Her heart gave a painful thump at the thought that the monarch had put a distance between them to be as far from her as possible. The realization struck her that she would not regain his affection until she birthed his long-awaited Prince of Wales, and if something had happened to her before she conceived, the monarch would remarry, quickly and gladly. Her stomach felt hollow, and she was cognizant of a feeling of lightheadedness. _No, Henry does care for me enough to keep me as his queen._

At last, the king informed, "I was in the manor of Iron Acton in Gloucestershire."

"Alone?" Her throat constricted in grief.

In tense silence, Henry discerned the knowing light in his spouse's eyes.

The ruler blew out a breath, as a series of remembrances flashed through him, playing carnal havoc in his groin. After the Christmas festivities which had been everything but merry, Henry had enjoined Lady Anne Bassett to accompany him on the trip away from Greenwich, for he had needed the solitude and the silence of some village to clear his head.

The monarch and his lover had spent three weeks in the moated manor house, which was owned by the Poyntz family in Iron Acton, South Gloucestershire. The castle was not grand, but it was welcoming, with its luxuriously furnished chambers and gracefully arched windows. In winter, an extensive stretch of park was covered with a thick mantle of snow, and from the front veranda, there was an excellent view of the snow-capped forest and fields.

Every night, Henry had plundered his paramour's body in the apartments where he had stayed together with Anne over a year ago during the court's progress. Against his will, he had imagined that he had slept not with Anne Bassett, but with his former wife. As he had kissed his mistress hungrily, his hands caressing her, the name 'Anne' had been on his lips, husky and low, although she had not known that her lover had dreamed of the exiled woman. His paramour had felt and tasted far better than warm wine on a winter's eve, but she was not Anne Boleyn.

The monarch glowered at his consort. "Do not follow in the Boleyn whore's footsteps: do not meddle in my affairs. I might eject you and your ambitious relatives from court."

A shaken Jane gasped. "Do you want to repudiate me? But we are husband and wife!" Her unexpected boldness came out of her deep-seated fear to be cast aside.

Angered by her audacity, Henry glared at her, as if she had launched a full-scale war to bend him to her will. "I do as I please because I am the King of England. And if I do something, I enjoy every bit of it." Narrowing his eyes at her, he hissed, "Be careful, sweetheart. You know what happened to my two previous queens. We do not want you to fall more swiftly than Anne."

A frightened Jane shuddered at the king's reference to the fates of her two predecessors. At this moment, her husband seemed to have transformed into an omnipotent monster, who was capable of killing many innocents and enslaving thousands more.

She staggered to a nearby chair. "I've always been your most humble spouse."

"Excellent, Jane. Do not ever cross a line and remember your place."

"I shall." She nervously fidgeted with a topaz collar that shimmered on her bosom.

Henry's expression softened. "As you have realized the error of your ways, I'm no longer inclined to castigate you, although that was my initial intention."

At this, her usually quiet tempter spiked a notch. "I know why Your Majesty is angry with me. I'm not pregnant yet, but it is not my fault. Every day I pray for a son, and if God has not blessed us with a child, it does not mean that the blame lies only with me."

"What are you implying?" Barely contained rage colored his words.

"If only my husband had not disappeared with his mistresses for days… If only he had visited his wife's bed more often… Perhaps I would have been pregnant now."

His nostrils flared, and his reddish brows lowered forbiddingly. "You have no right to talk to me in such a disrespectful way. I am not some worthless peasant."

Jane's breath caught sharply. "I beg Your Majesty's pardon."

His countenance twisted in abhorrence. "That was a big mistake of yours, Jane. Our argument reminds me of that harlot. To challenge me gave her great pleasure."

"I'm sorry," muttered Jane, her features paler.

Henry jumped to his feet and stomped over to her. Stopping beside her chair, he glanced at her with dislike. "In spite of Catherine's and Anne's sins, I've never laid hands on a woman in my entire life, save the only time when I met the harlot in the Tower before her release." He stilled to observe his wife's reaction to his confession, as if savoring her obvious fear. "Considering the provocation, you are damned lucky I'm not going to beat you, although you have merited it."

"Henry, do not… Do not hurt me, I beseech you!"

The king grabbed Jane by the upper arm and roughly hoisted her to her feet. "I promised that I would not beat you! Do not make me repeat myself! Do not rebel against me!"

"Forgive me, sire," Jane implored. "For the love of heaven!"

This particularly lovely January morning, the queen had prepared for the meeting with the king, who had returned to the palace yesterday. Her ladies had aided Jane to dress in a modest gown of azure silk, lavishly ornamented with pearls and sapphires. Then she had awaited her spouse, humming joyfully to herself. However, their quarrel had shattered her tranquility.

His hands tightened painfully on her arms. "Do you understand me?"

With a titanic effort, Jane bit back the furious recriminations which sprang to her tongue. _I cannot antagonize the king more than I've already done today,_ she speculated grimly. _It is not the time to take him to task for his affairs._ Once the current crisis was past, she would have to try and find a way back into the monarch's good graces. God, how much Jane longed for her mother's guidance and affection, for she did not know how to salvage her seemingly dying marriage.

Henry uttered through slitted eyes, "Now I'll endeavor to put a child in your belly."

As he unlaced his hose, Jane entreated, "No, please! Not like this, Your Majesty!"

Her protestations fell on deaf ears. "You owe me a son."

Everything happened in a blur. There was a moment of "Please, no!" as the queen cried once more, and then a falling sensation as the ruler shoved her to the floor. He pulled up her skirts, parted her legs, and pushed himself inside of her, hard and without hesitation. She yelled at the urgency of his entry as he compelled her reluctant body to allow him admission. As he pounded into her like a man possessed, she was biting her bottom lip to stifle the groans of discomfort.

As his punishing exercise in her flesh was over, Henry climbed to his feet and laced his hose. "If your womb is not barren, you may bear a fruit before the year is out."

Not sparing her any glance of sympathy, the English ruler left his consort weeping on the floor. Her universe was splintered and fragmented between the lingering effects of the forceful intimacy she had just endured and the continuing tributes to the affection she thought she still had for the king. Her sister, Dorothy, found Jane curled up on the floor in a miserable heap.

"Do you still love our liege lord, Jane?" Dorothy assisted Jane to get to her feet.

The queen rearranged her skirts. "One day, he will see the error of his ways."

"Why are you really so naïve, Janey? Your husband regularly betrays you not only with that Bassett prostitute, but also with many others. He does not respect you, and I doubt he loved Catherine of Aragon or Anne Boleyn more than himself. He is a ruthless and selfish man, one who thinks that he can do whatever he wants because he is God's representative on earth." Hurting her sister was the last thing Dorothy wished to do, but she strove to break her sister's illusion.

"It is not your place to criticize His Majesty," chastised Jane.

Her sister gave a bitter laugh. "Well, thank you for the reminder."

The queen murmured achingly, "Dorothy, please do not make my life more complicated than it already is. I cannot discuss Henry and what he has done to me. I just cannot…"

Dorothy put out a long finger and brushed away Jane's tears, gently erasing each one as they slid out from the queen's eyes. "Do not torture yourself, Janey."

The king's wife requested, "Help me prepare for the meeting with Elizabeth."

§§§

Queen Jane Seymour made her way to the monarch's private chambers. Like the queen, Dorothy pretended that everything was all right, although her heart ached at Jane's tense features, which were pallid from the shock she had recently experienced. Their other sister, Elizabeth, sensed that something was wrong with the queen, but her questions had been dodged.

Her expression bland, Jane sat in a throne-like chair at the far end of the room hung with multicolored silks. While observing King Henry greet Princess Elizabeth, she was fighting against the headache that had been building since the recent awful encounter with her spouse.

Henry strode over to the red-haired girl, who had just risen from her curtsey. He lifted her in his arms and kissed her on both cheeks. After a short hesitation, the princess hugged him.

"My Elizabeth." The king planted a gentle kiss on Elizabeth's forehead.

"Papa," the princess lisped. Her hostility towards her father had not abated, but despite her tender age, she had realized that she had to feign love for him.

He twirled with the girl before setting her back on her feet. He acknowledged Lady Bryan and Lady Horseman with a slight nod, who both curtsied when his gaze landed on them.

The king beamed at his daughter. "My dearest Lizzy, I'm marveling at what a lovely girl you are growing into. The reports of your prettiness have all been true."

"Thank you." Elizabeth's faux smile seemed natural even to her father.

Jane chimed in, "She will be a beautiful woman in adulthood."

Although the queen labored to keep her voice devoid of emotion, she failed to do so. Her husband instantly noticed that her smooth tone lacked the warmth that always colored it when she communicated with his eldest daughter, Mary. As he frowned at her, his spouse's skin turned clammy, a shiver running down her spine as a cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

Henry proclaimed, "The strong Tudor blood is coursing through my daughter's veins."

At this moment, the ruler could almost pretend that Elizabeth was only his daughter. He could almost forget that she was also a Boleyn. Almost… Yet, he could not ignore that the black-eyed child was so alike her mother that the resemblance was nearly uncanny, except for the Tudor red-gold hair that she had inherited from him and her grandmother, Elizabeth of York.

Elizabeth and Henry peered into each other's eyes. An odd silence ensued.

Neither the king nor the princess could guess that they both recollected the moments when Anne, Henry, and their daughter had last met together. For the rest of her life, Elizabeth would remember the day when a scared Anne had carried the girl, who had been utterly frightened, but had kept quiet in her arms, while having desperately chased after the enraged monarch. Until his dying day, Henry would not forget the terrified black pools of his former consort and the identical eyes of his youngest daughter, which had stared at him with plea as Anne had reached him in the garden near a fountain. These memories were engraved upon their minds forever.

Henry broke the pause. "Elizabeth, are you happy to be at court again?"

"Yes, I am. Have you prepared a gift for me?" Her voice did not show her inner tumult.

He burst out laughing. "Of course. Later you will receive a lot of gifts."

Elizabeth let out a smile. "It is nice of you, papa."

Her parent laughed. "Everything for you, my sweet princess!"

 _Everything, excluding my mother,_ Elizabeth fumed inwardly. Her father's words irked her, and she fended off the impulse to sputter her indignation. It took the girl all her strength to keep her calm façade and to smile at the ruler when he lavished her with affection.

"You must greet your stepmother," he demanded.

Nodding, Elizabeth walked to the queen, her posture and deportment royal. Lady Bryan and Lady Horseman both prayed that the girl would be courteous, as she had promised.

Jane flinched as she beheld the girl's curtsey. If she looked at Henry at this moment, she would have seen him wince. Elizabeth's stunning curtsey was so much like Anne's!

"I'm delighted to see you, Elizabeth." The queen did not address her by her title, which, she believed, rightfully belonged to Mary Tudor. "It must be lonely at Hatfield."

"I'm never alone, Your Majesty," answered the princess evenly, taking in the woman she loathed wholeheartedly. "I'm with my ladies." The words that memories of her dear mama were always with her hovered over her lips, but they did not come to her tongue.

Henry emerged behind the child. "At present, you are with us, Elizabeth."

The girl's eyes flew to her stepmother. "Thank you for greeting me, Your Majesty."

Jane's smile was genuine. "You are most welcome."

To her amazement, the queen was indeed glad to see the girl, despite her ill parentage on her maternal side. Perhaps she felt so thanks to the yearning for her own child. In spite of her loathing for her expelled rival, Jane must stand in a mother's place to Elizabeth and teach her to be a decent lady. _With God's help, I'll make this girl a devout Catholic._

Henry's approving smile was scant comfort to Jane, but it emboldened her to add, "I hope that over time, we can become as close as mother and daughter."

The king glanced down at the girl. "Elizabeth, you must respect Jane in the same way as you would treat your own mama. She will take good care of you, helping me raise you."

"As Your Majesty wishes." The princess' tone was cool.

This let her parent realize that the child did not like his request, despite all her pretense. "Jane is your stepmother, and nothing, except for my will, will change it."

"Of course." Elizabeth inclined her head in comprehension.

The ruler's statement caused Jane to tremble like the stem of a reed in the wind. She had figured out her spouse's veiled hint that her fate was in his hands. _I just need a son! Only a male child will secure me on the throne and in his heart._ Nonetheless, she could not deny that Henry was fickle and volatile like a tempestuous ocean, and she had already seen that it could take merely one word, misstep, or move for the object of his fixation to fall from grace. Maybe Dorothy and Elizabeth were correct that his volatile nature was an obstacle Jane would not surmount.

During the next hour, the queen witnessed the king converse with his child. It discomfited her that Henry treated Elizabeth so affectionately, for it meant that he could not efface memories of the nefarious adulteress, who had whored herself out. Henry loved his second daughter more than Mary, whom he had degraded to a royal bastard. Given the above, Jane wondered whether the king's feelings for Anne were stronger than those for Catherine of Aragon had once been.

When Elizabeth's gaze locked with her stepmother's, Jane saw the intelligence shining in the girl's eyes. Their color was dark and reminded Jane of Anne's hooking eyes so much that she thought they carried a false innocence, and the queen imagined that the princess' expression was like that of a hawk about to pounce on her. _What am I doing? Elizabeth must not be held responsible for her mother's sins,_ Jane scolded herself for such ridiculous thoughts.

Deep down, Jane Seymour admired the girl, who was as extraordinary as her mother. She had a feeling that Elizabeth was no timid little bird, but some powerful, proud, and independent being, reincarnated for a while within the confines of her strong spirit, for the princess had to obey her parent to avoid any quarrels with him. Jane hoped that after the initial stiffness between the two females, Elizabeth would grow fond of her, and that she would love her future brother.

Watching Henry play with Elizabeth, the queen fantasized that she would give birth to a brood of Tudor handsome princes and princesses. Her and Henry's red-haired, mischievous, little imps would run around and play noisy games, and their antics would leave their parents uncertain upon occasion whether to smack their bottoms or laugh aloud. Her dreams were tinctured with light hues of much-desired happiness, which she did not have in real life. Jane prayed that her love for Henry would unlock all the doors separating them from contentment.

At the same time, Jane was conscious of a chance that she would stumble exactly where her predecessors had done. Her worst fear was that she would never have her prince, although Doctor Butts had assured her that she could conceive and carry a babe to full term. Her boy would take the throne after his father and restore England to the flock of Rome in the future.

Jane's hand flew to her abdomen. "I must give Henry a son," she murmured to herself. Yet, the wings of some sinister presentiment fluttered in her chest.

§§§

"Make way for Lady Mary Tudor!" At the herald's cry, the crowd in the hallway, which connected with the Princess Elizabeth's rooms, parted, clearing a path for Mary.

Her gait measured, slow, and confident, Mary kept her back straight and her head high, just as a princess should. Her expression regal, she was bestowing beaming smiles upon courtiers and servants alike as she strolled over to the entrance to her sister's apartments. Mary gleamed in her gown of purple and golden satin embroidered in a lavish pattern of diamond flowers, fitting her thin, but quite short, form tightly, save where it swirled around her gold-sandaled feet.

As she passed the courtiers, Mary heard the approving murmurs and noticed the benign smiles on their faces. Most of them had loved or at least respected her late mother. Now they saw in her the only chance for England to join the Catholic Church again. Apparently, they reckoned that she had the right to the title of princess as Catherine of Aragon's legitimate daughter.

Her father's words, which he had spoken years ago, resurfaced in Mary's consciousness. "My Mary, the pearl of my entire world," King Henry had told his teenaged daughter. Then he had addressed the courtiers who had watched them with broad grins. "To all nobles here present, let it be known that Mary is the noblest Princess of England, my most beloved daughter. Soon she will be given her own court at Ludlow Castle and depart for Wales."

 _My father loved me back then,_ Mary mused. _He did not make me Princess of Wales, but he considered me his heir._ Everything in her and her late mother's lives had been fine until the Boleyn whore had bewitched the monarch. At present, deprived of everything she had loved, she felt as hopeless as a passenger who had fallen overboard while on a ship at sea. The high waves of her pain threatened to submerge Mary, her soul screaming against the water choking her.

As she approached the door, she took a fortifying breath. No one should see her distress, for royals ought not to show their emotions. Moreover, the ruler's spies would report to Henry if she allowed herself to look disgusted or frustrated before entering Elizabeth's chambers.

Schooling her features into perfect blankness and forcing a smile, Mary slipped inside the room. Anne Boleyn's little daughter was half-asleep in the arms of Lady Margery Horseman, who had spent two hours tonight with the princess after the girl's meeting with the king and queen. Margery had told Elizabeth bedtime stories and reminded her of a happier time when Anne had come to Hatfield and stayed there, spending the evenings with her dearest daughter.

"My Lady Mary," Margery began, her countenance apologetic. She could not stand up and curtsey to the king's daughter because the princess was in her arms. "I'm sorry for–"

"It is fine, Lady Horseman," Mary uttered before the other woman could finish.

"Thank you." Margery let out a wan smile. She had always supported Queen Anne and Princess Elizabeth, but she respected Mary. "Our little princess is almost asleep."

Mary approached them. She bent down to Elizabeth's level and stroked the child's hair. "You may go. It is quite late, and I shall put my sister to bed."

Elizabeth opened her sleepy eyes. "Mary! Mary!"

At the sight of the girl's delight, Mary smiled cordially. "Yes, my dear sister!"

"I've missed you," Elizabeth murmured. "I want to play with you."

Catherine of Aragon's daughter took Elizabeth into her arms. "Aren't you tired?"

"I am." Elizabeth yawned. "Tomorrow, then?"

Mary laughed softly. "Of course, Lizzy."

"Thank you for taking care of her, Lady Mary." There was a look of genuine gratitude on Margery's face. She then curtsied to Mary and vacated the room.

"Why did you come so late?" Elizabeth inquired.

"I spent the whole day reading, sister. I like solitude."

Mary carried Elizabeth to the adjacent room, which served as the princess' bedchamber. She placed the girl onto a small, canopied bed swathed in beige silk; only one candle burned on a table. Tapestries with scenes from the life of the Virgin Mary adorned the walls.

"Sleep well, Lizzy," Mary uttered as she tucked blankets in around Elizabeth.

The child yawned and held out a hand. With a grin, Mary touched her hand for a moment and kissed Elizabeth's forehead, feeling sentimental tears prick her eyes.

"Good night, Mary," whispered Elizabeth. She quickly fell asleep.

For a short time, Mary stood near the bed, as if she were guarding her sister's sleep. After Elizabeth's birth, Mary had tried to hate the girl, but it was unfair to blame her for her mother's sins. The charming Elizabeth had enchanted Mary, who had grown to care deeply for the child. Despite all her loathing for the harlot, Mary would never believe her younger sister capable of evil, although she would never acknowledge Elizabeth as the king's legitimate daughter.

Nevertheless, Mary's feelings for Elizabeth were highly conflicted since Anne's exile. _You are not a princess of the blood, Lizzy. You are a Boleyn bastard. Yet, His Majesty has kept you in the line of succession. Why is he so blind and unfair to me?_ Catherine's daughter ruminated, painfully and enviously. _I pray that you will not follow in your damned mother's villainous and wanton footsteps._ Mary suspected that the older Elizabeth would become, the less understanding they would have; even now, when Mary looked at her sister, her envy was sometimes so profound that it poured into her usually good sentiments towards the girl, and she could barely conceal it.

Mary foretold, "Most likely, our relationship will be on a shaky footing when you grow up, Lizzy." Immediately, she glanced around, fearing that someone could overhear them.

The ruler's eldest daughter berated herself for such thoughts. For the sake of this innocent child, who did not deserve her disdain unlike her mother, Mary refused to let her attitude towards Anne sway her decision to be a kind and caring sister to Elizabeth. But, deep down, Mary felt that if one day they were destined to become rivals for the English throne, she would be able to tear her sympathies from her heart so as to fight for what she believed rightfully belonged to her.

Mary shifted her gaze away from the sleeping girl, as if it could help her distance herself from Anne's daughter. She stared into the dying fire in the hearth for a handful of moments, failing to relax. She kissed Elizabeth again as if to atone for her bad thoughts, and then left.

* * *

 _I hope you like this chapter. Please leave a review, which will encourage me to keep going._

 _The Pilgrimage of Grace is spreading through the north of England like wildfire. The demands of the pilgrims, which are mentioned in the first scene, are historically correct. Thomas Cromwell invents a crafty stratagem to squash the rebellion._

 _Elizabeth still blames the king for her separation from her beloved mother, Anne Boleyn. Despite her tender age, she is phenomenally precocious and knows that her father ordered to behead Anne, but then exiled her. After her mother's arrest in May 1536, Elizabeth was kept at court, though away from the public eye; she could have heard her ladies gossiping about her mother's "crimes" and Anne's punishment – execution through beheading. That is why the princess says to Lady Margery Horsman and Lady Margaret Bryan that the king wanted to behead her mother and asks them whether her father will want to behead her as well. The girl is rather traumatized by memories of her last meeting with Anne in the gardens._

 _Queen Jane Seymour is not pregnant yet, and, therefore, King Henry is upset with her. He considers his consort plain and boring, but he still hopes that Jane is capable of giving him a son. The monarch has many paramours, and he spent three weeks with Lady Anne Bassett, who became his chief mistress, away from court. An incensed Henry forced himself on Jane, hoping that she will conceive. Despite her conversation with Dorothy who endeavors to make her sister see the truth about her royal husband's fickleness, Jane believes that Henry loves her and will not discard her._

 _Elizabeth has to be cautious in her communication with Henry, so she follows the wise advice of Margery Horsman and Margaret Bryan. Jane is not happy to see little Elizabeth, but she is not blind to ignore the child's intelligence and charm. As for Mary Tudor's short meeting with the sleeping princess, you can see that the girl has a warm relationship with little Elizabeth, but Mary also knows that everything may change in the future._

 _I have a poll about Anne Bassett's fate on my profile page. Vote, please!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	15. Chapter 14: The Lonely Monotony of Life

**Chapter 14: The Lonely Monotony of Life**

 ** _January 24, 1537, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France_**

"Make way for the king!" the herald shouted. "Make way for His Majesty!"

Clad in elegant brown traveling attire, King François marched through the corridor, surrounded by guards and watched by the bowing and curtseying courtiers. The monarch's arrival was expected since the queen's almost miscarriage several weeks earlier; he had been delayed in Poitou by the foul weather as the heavy snowfall had made roads nearly impassable.

The ruler's expression was impenetrable, as if nothing threatened his spouse's health. However, a muscle twitched in his jaw as he neared the queen's apartments. There was a sense of urgency in his quick, as always regal, gait that communicated haste and anxiety.

After entering the antechamber, François paused and looked at his wife's ladies, who all curtsied to him. As his gaze rested on Françoise de Foix, he gestured towards an adjacent room. His former mistress followed him inside, and the king closed the door behind them.

Stopping in the middle of the room, he fired questions one after another. "How has Anne been fairing? What does Doctor Fernel say? Is there any threat to her life?"

Françoise surveyed her liege lord curiously. He had always been an exceptionally gallant man who showed respect to women, whom he referred to as 'flowers'. It was well-known that he loved his mother and sister fiercely, lavishing them with affection and relying upon their counsel. To everyone, his current worry about his spouse would seem usual, but not to the countess.

Busy with her observation, she didn't respond straight away. Her silence caused the king to cover the gap between them before repeating, "Is Anne's life in danger?"

"No." She discerned an immense relief in his relaxing features.

"And?" he prompted, his voice laced with concern.

"Now the queen is resting. Thanks be to God, there has been no sign of miscarriage since that unfortunate Christmas evening. Doctor Fernel thinks that Her Majesty has a good chance to carry the child to term, provided that she remains on bedrest until its birth and follows all of his strict recommendations. Actually, her condition and mood have both improved."

The ruler crossed himself, and a smile lit up his visage. "The Lord has kept Anne safe! Her health is more important than anything else. Even if the child is lost, she must live."

Françoise allowed her lips to part in a smile. "You care more about her than the babe."

"That is true. In spite of Anne's hostile attitude towards me and all men, I do not care whether she ever gives me a child or not. She is my wife, and my duty is to keep her safe."

At this, she laughed, as if his claim were the most amusing tidbit of information she had ever heard. "Obligation, Your Majesty? Or maybe it is your heart's desire?"

"Both," he realized. "More my heart's desire than anything else."

"That is what I thought. You cannot live without her."

François pondered his sentiments towards his queen. "Anne is like a good old wine for me: the longer I know her, the more I crave to grasp her enigma. My state of yearning for her is reminiscent of a drunken swoon, and when she is close to me, I often struggle to think coherently." Sadness shadowed his eyes. "Her rejections do not turn her into water from wine."

The countess giggled. _François is quickly falling for his spouse! For the first time in his life, he may fall in love with a woman because he has found his match and equal in her,_ she mused with delight. The countess was still immensely devoted to the King of France, and she always would, but she wanted him to find marital contentment and wished him all the best.

The Countess de Chateaubriand recalled her personal discourses with the king. Marriage, François used to say, was a matter of tradition and duty for procreation. A matter of necessity for royalty to provide a country with heirs. In most cases, no man married until he was obliged, and then only did so to better himself and his noble house. Love in matrimony was too absurd a thing for a man who possessed common sense. The king had once confessed to Françoise that he could lust after women, but would never fall a victim to the tender passion. Despite being friends with him, Françoise did not know why he had not believed in love since his youth.

Life had proven the French ruler wrong after he had wed Anne Boleyn. He had slept with numberless women and was perhaps more experienced in extramarital affairs than Zeus himself. He had hugged and kissed beauties countless times, but his heart had been closed. Until now…

"François," she called. The ruler frequently allowed her to address him by his name.

"What?" His quizzical brow shot up.

Her smile widened. "You are falling in love with Queen Anne."

"I do not know." His breath caught as he imagined his wife's dark eyes.

"Think about it. But now go to her." She touched his arm, encouraging him to leave.

The ruler let out a smile. "Thank you, Françoise. You are such a precious friend of mine! In my absence, you have taken the best possible care of my queen."

"Just as I promised you in my letter. I'll continue watching over her."

The king spun on his heels and exited. He didn't see the countess wipe an errant tear from her cheek, for her heart ached with her unrequited, deep and everlasting, love for François.

§§§

As the monarch entered the queen's bedchamber, his heart sped as a thrill of elation seized him at the sight of his spouse. The music of longing, which he had so long combated with during their separation, echoed behind the closed doors of his inner realm.

Crossing to a canopied bed where Anne rested, François studied her closely. Now she was visibly pregnant, the dome of her belly accentuated by the covers hugging her form. Despite her pallor, her exotic beauty was enhanced by the impending motherhood, glowing like a flower. Such a scintillating emotional weather reigned in his universe that he gasped with pure joy. But he fended off the impulse to embrace his wife and caress her abdomen, where the new life they had created on the wedding night was growing, for she would certainly not appreciate that.

He seated himself on the edge of the bed. Instantly, she snuggled to the other side. Her eyes turned frantic, as if she were on the verge of tears, and fright flashed in them.

Her reaction disappointed him. "I'm not going to harm you, Anne."

She relaxed. "I'm sorry."

"There is no need to apologize." With a sigh, he stood up.

Her hand halted him. "Please, do not leave."

He pressed her hand to his chest. "Does the past preclude us from being friends?"

Bewilderment painted the queen's features. Questions blazed through her consciousness like meteors. Did François fantasize about having a happy ending with her, and, if he did, why? Anne was clueless as to the matter, and her face as warmthless as ever.

Her arctic voice cut through the air like the twang of a ricocheting shot. "Our practical arrangement of convenience was a bold step for us both, one of the few available solutions for us at the time. We have been audacious in the most dangerous of ways – in the calculating manner of cunning people who strive to achieve goals by any means. There is no greater happiness in a royal marriage than that when the king and queen work as allies; I prefer to keep it this way."

Inwardly disheartened, he appeared outwardly unruffled. "Marriage confines man to the world of either duty and formality or love and ruin. This is especially true for royals." His biting laugh was comprised of irony and regret. "To wed a woman for whom you feel something and who returns your sentiments is to lay a wager with her as to who will stop loving the other first."

She was hurt by his caustic words. "Marriage is like a cage for a woman, particularly for a queen. If she happens to fall in love with her spouse, she is forced to watch his little birds – his paramours – outside the cage. They are so desperate to have him that, once they get inside, they peck her love for him to the death. Thus, for most of the time, she is desperate to get out."

"In _the Anacreontea,_ Eros once failed to notice a bee sleeping among the roses. He was struck in the finger and ran to the beautiful Aphrodite. He told her, 'I've been killed, mother. I'm dying. I was struck by the winged snake that farmers call "the bee". She responded, 'If the bee-sting is so painful, what pain, Eros, do you suppose all your victims suffer?"

She remembered this tale. "Is it from some Greek collection of love poems?"

"Your intelligence has always been a lure for all those blackguards whom you call men."

Anne chuckled, and François grinned at her. They laughed airily as a sense of exultation overmastered them for a fraction of a second. He suppressed the inclination to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless, until she cheerfully braced herself for his sensual onslaught.

Nevertheless, the magical moment had passed and was gone. Such an ethereal moment of perfect bliss, however, could not become a perpetuity of rapt joy, for she did not love him.

The queen shifted closer to her husband. "It is good to see Your Majesty at last."

Capturing her hand, the monarch brushed his lips against her palm before stating half-smugly, half-hopefully, "Obviously, you have missed me, Your mysterious Majesty."

She extracted her hand from his. "You are too conceited for my liking, sire."

He playfully conceded, "More than you can know. But you like it."

She smirked. "More than I hate it. You may be amusing."

All of a sudden, François cupped her face and kissed her with a reverent tenderness. In a handful of heartbeats, he parted from her and stared into her dark pools, full of confusion and astonishment. In these moments, they both felt absolutely content, as if they had stood within the gilded gates of heaven, but they were called to reality by the Almighty's judgment.

He traced the contours of his wife's face, gentling her, observing as anticipation replaced confusion in her eyes. He felt a brief glimmer of hope that at this moment, Anne experienced a faint stirring of warmth within her breast, which a woman feels when her beloved enfolds her into his arms. Yet, the sudden coldness in her gaze ceased the movement of his hand.

His formal tone was devoid of the inner tumult as he pronounced, "True amusement lies in knowing how to live. I'm not sure that the new Anne who married me knows this."

There was no hint of gentility in her demeanor as she declared, "When a man talks like that, Your Majesty, it generally means that it is time he entertains himself with a new beauty."

He retorted acridly, "Isn't that an outstanding remedy for a man whose wife is colder than the snow? As a king, I can give up any mistress if she bores me too much. I can also give up most of my other amusements, even carnal ones, but not our union as we exchanged vows before God." His sneer caused her to wince. "Our marriage shall always entertain me in a way."

Something glistened in her gaze. "You have never loved a woman."

"You know," he commenced, "I've always dreamed of love – _true love_ , though I do not believe in it, partly due to my parents' situation. Indeed, where does one find it nowadays?"

Anne blinked like a startled doe. "I do not know."

"Very rarely," her spouse continued in a grave undertone. "I've never felt it myself – not what should be called _love_. I've chased various women, and I've been keen enough over some of them. But none of them has ever given me a spiritual contentment, while you can do that."

This was his defense against his spouse's indifference that sometimes alternated with disdain. At the present moment, he felt as lonely as a sailor lost in the ocean, and his head-over-heels physical attraction for her now seemed to be an onerous burden. Nonetheless, the words that he had never been as attracted to a woman as he was to his third wife hovered upon his lips. The king was swimming in a sea of confusion that had only one focal point: why he cared for Anne so much, and why she haunted him like a sensual ghost determined to win his soul.

She regarded him scornfully. "So, I was right about you."

He put his hand to his chest, closing his fist there, as if he would draw something out. "We men are as prone to infirmity as any lady, but we are trained from childhood to deny it."

Anne swallowed her umbrage. "That is so kind of you to say that."

He climbed to his feet. "Man is his own worst enemy, as Cicero said."

 _My wife is her own sworn foe,_ François silently fumed as he vacated the chamber. _Not her adversaries or anguish, but her clinging to the past might defeat her._ His affection for her sprang up into the fiercest flame of jealous passion, as he berated Anne for her unwillingness to meet him halfway and to at least make their marital life a little pleasant. He was jealous of her to Henry, even though he was not certain that she still loved his English counterpart.

In the meantime, the French queen lay in her bed; her gaze glassy and absent. Being confined to bed, she delighted in reading books, which were brought to her from the library; she preferred chivalric romances and satires. Her marriage seemed to Anne a fathomless enigma that encircled her like a waft of sensuality; no talk, tune, or poem could convey her tangled emotions. _Words are useless in my marital life. Even worse – they are misleading,_ she lamented.

§§§

As the king returned to his quarters, a young lady rushed to him. Her impetuous welcome, accompanied with a volley of girlish giggling, goaded him to envelop her into his arms.

"Your Majesty!" The woman placed her head against his chest. "My knight!"

The monarch whispered into her ear, "Welcome back to court, Claude."

As they parted, François perused his guest. Attired in a gown of auburn velvet worked with gold, its sleeves long, pendent and its neckline low, Claude de Rohan-Gié was a picture of majestic charm, which was attributable to her refined manners and her innate elegance. A month earlier, Claude had turned seventeen and was now emerging into adolescence. The king had sent her a gift for her birthday: on her bosom there was a cordeliere, which, being imitated from the cord worn by Franciscan friars, was formed of red silk twisted with threads of gold.

The freshness of her youthful beauty was tinged with sensuality that she had developed thanks to the romance with her amorous sovereign. During her service to Eleanor of Austria, she had quickly became one of the finest ornaments to the French court and caught the king's eye. Her father, Charles de Rohan-Gié, who had fought at Marignano long ago, approved of his daughter's liaison with François because of the privileges and wealth it had brought to the House of Rohan. For a short time, François had been so smitten with Claude that her coat-of-arms had been carved on some walls at Château de Chambord, where they often had rendezvous.

Claude's scintillating smile and her long, thick, honey-gold hair, which was hidden by a hood studded with gems, set off her hazel-green eyes strikingly. Tall and slender, her well-curved body boasted a narrow waist, flared hips, and shapely legs, which she liked wrapping around his body in a dance of lust. Her gaze barely concealed an early awareness of her femininity and also intellect that she used at random. At the same time, Claude lacked the unrivalled majesty of Anne's deportment and the indescribable exoticism of the queen's appearance.

Claude flashed him a dazzling smile. "I'm wearing your gift, my king! I love it so much! It is so expensive, and I'm surprised that you gave it to me."

Although his prodigality was sometimes excessive, François enjoyed seeing a lady's joy upon receiving his lavish gifts. "Women are the finest blossoms of beauty men can find."

Her arms snaked around his neck. "Your Majesty is the most gallant knight."

Her admiration of him pleased and amused the ruler. "The truest definition of chivalry is that a man should protect a woman against every other male but himself."

She chortled. "Do not protect yourself from me. We need each other too much."

"Perhaps." His response was skeptical, but she paid no heed to it.

"Blessed are those in love," purred Claude with a coquettish smile. A graceful tilt of her head had the precise angle to showcase her alabaster neck. "I love you, my heroic François!"

Although François laughed, an amalgam of sadness and bitterness inundated him. "The sun, rising and setting in glorious colors, never grows tired of its admirers."

"You are the sun of France!" Her fingertips caressed the contours of his face. "I shall always treasure your adoration for me, just as no lady ever gets tired of pretty flowers."

"My dear Claude, we ought to remember what makes an enlightened French woman: the bright and inquisitive mind, the inclination to learn new things, the aspiration to keep apace with mankind's progress, and the ability to live sagely and well." He lifted his hand to her cheek, his fingers sliding along the curve of her jaw. "You are all these things altogether, _chérie_!"

Batting her eyes, Claude flirted with him audaciously. "The gist of it all is this: it takes the brilliance of intellect, the splendor of sweet womanliness, and the glory of honorable grace to complete the picture of a perfect woman for a great king such as yourself."

"What a clever way of thinking! A brainless woman cannot be beautiful."

Claude de Rohan-Gié tiptoed to kiss King François, whose towering height prevented her from reaching his mouth. Bending his head, he caught her lips in a searing kiss that made them quiver, the tongues of carnal yearning flicking excitedly against their clothed bodies.

The monarch pulled away, and his mistress issued a groan of protest. His mind conjured the image of Anne's rare smiles. Her breezy laughter, which he had last heard in Calais, rang out in his ears like Aphrodite's peremptorily irresistible tune of love. A moment later, the sadness over Anne's rejections of him bled into his consciousness, blurring these heavenly visions with a stamp of his melancholy. _My spouse hates me so… Nevertheless, any of my mistresses, whether another Anne or Claude, are always at my disposal,_ François fretted.

Since adolescence, the king had lived in a seemingly perpetual dissolution. His queen obstinately refused to jump into his romantic extravagances, all the while weaving their relationship into an existence as infinitesimal as sunrise or sunset. Anne's coldness intensified his desire to resort to his traditional hedonistic ways, while also hurting him like bereavement.

"I want you," he said hoarsely.

She eagerly complied. "I'm yours, my beloved!"

François kissed a trail to the hollow of her neck, and Claude responded in kind, her body pliant in his embrace. The color of her dazed eyes softened to a warm honeyed hue, drowning him further in her allure. He carried her to a canopied bed in the corner, and then she undressed them. Spasms of hunger raved through them as his lips marauded hers, as if her mouth were the only source of tenderness, which could make him forget his wife. As their naked forms entwined, her limbs became soft pillars of an amorous temple, as she straddled him and rocked to and fro.

Their bodies came together many times until the streaks of dawn colored the firmament. Their needs sated, François lay next to her, feeling the meaninglessness of his life. Claude was a goddess of elaborate intimate pirouettes: as always, tonight she had practiced all the refinements of physical love, one moment withholding her indecent caresses and the next lavishing her lover with them. Yet, now the king's universe was shifting, tumbling in its lonely monotony.

Sliding into a robe of blue velvet, François went to the antechamber. He sat there, a goblet of wine clasped in his hand, lost in thought. His sister's light footfall did not reach his ear.

The Queen of Navarre mocked, "Has your sanity restored itself?"

The king flittered his gaze to her. "Sister, why are you not sleeping?"

A livid Marguerite huffed, "You are a complete fool, François! Your desire to be loved, to be held close to the other shape, to see the eyes full of devotion… What about it?"

"Why are you angry, Margot? Deign to explain."

She stomped her feet in exasperation. "You wanted to make your marriage work. And what happened tonight? You ran into that Rohan harlot, didn't you?"

He narrowed his eyes. "By heaven! My wife loathes me and all men!"

"She can hardly be blamed for that."

François sucked in a distressed breath. "There must be a way of countering Henry's curse that Anne can never love again. When she is with me and not angry, she looks at me sadly."

Marguerite stated forthrightly, "You must restore her faith in justice and love."

His eyes were beseeching, searching. "It may not work."

Stopping beside his chair, she touched her brother's arm. "Stay committed to Anne and discard all your mistresses; it will bind you two together. Learn to love her through thick and thin – yes, brother, you are falling for her, although it is not deep love yet."

He clutched Marguerite's fingers. "We do not know our future."

Marguerite cupped his hands over hers. "Do that, or you shall never be happy!"

After administering a compassionate pat on his shoulder, the Navarrese queen exited.

The ruler swung the goblet around and sloshed some of the contents onto the floor, then swigged it down. A raven of despair perched at the mast of his marital ship, being tossed by a storm of his discord with Anne, and every day it pecked the rest of his wife's respect to him, as she grew increasingly distanced from him. The king was awash with guilt over another betrayal of his vows to Anne, as suffocating as the one he had felt while being with his other lovers.

François wondered, "Am I falling in love with you, my queen?" Silence was the answer, but a laughter dancing in the air almost confirmed his suspicions. "Perhaps, perhaps."

* * *

 ** _February 1, 1537, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France_**

Books were shelved on both sides of the study, illumined by candles burning on rosewood tables. A desk, filled with papers, stood near a window, from where one could see snow falling out of a steel-gray firmament. Consuming every inch of the walls were tapestries and paintings.

The King of France paced the study like an expectant father near the door to the birthing chamber, although his wife would give birth to their child in three months. His consciousness was teeming with the images of their recent quarrel: an exasperated Anne had not accepted from him a sapphire and diamond necklace that had once belonged to his mother, Louise de Savoy.

His steps were like those of a man searching desperately for something precious. Indeed, he was laboring to find an explanation for the aversion Anne seemed to be experiencing towards him. Since his return, she had erected a thick wall of ice between them, as though she hated him and was hell bent on bruising his pride and heart. His attempts at closeness had been thwarted.

Anne's harsh tirade echoed through his scull like circling vultures. "I do not want any gifts from Your Majesty! No ruler is a good fit for a husband, so go to your mistresses and spend everything from your treasury on them. Leave me alone!" Her rejection of his mother's necklace, which had a special meaning for the Savoy family, was as painful as a physical wound.

"Father!" exclaimed Prince Charles de Valois as he entered.

François finally ceased pacing. Plastering a smile on his face, he plodded to his guest and embraced him. "Charles! Look how you have grown in my absence!"

The door opened, and Dauphin Henri walked in to see his brother in his father's arms. Henri cleared his throat to secure the room's attention, and the two other men instantly parted.

"Henri," the monarch called softly. "It is so good to see you, son."

The dauphin surveyed his royal parent with undisguised jealousy and ire. He had long been furiously envious of the special bond, which his father shared with Charles. After the return of Henri and the late Dauphin François from the Imperial captivity, Henri's relationship with his parent was strained, to say the least. François and Henri disagreed about all kinds of things, their lives dampened by their frustrations over their arguments. _I still cannot forgive my father,_ Henri mused bitterly. _He allowed my now dead brother and me to languish in the Spanish prison for years. In the meantime, father lived in luxury and entertained himself with his paramours._

As the eldest prince kept silent, the ruler came to him and pulled him into his arms. After disentangling himself from their embrace, François watched Henri attentively for a moment before a benign smile blossomed on his features, his joyful gaze darting between his offspring.

"Come here, sons!" The monarch gestured towards chairs, which lined the further wall.

The three men seated themselves comfortably, and servants brought wine for them.

François took a hearty swig of claret. "Since my arrival at court, we have not had much time to talk. I've heard that you have both excelled in your studies while I was away."

Slowly drinking wine, the Duke d'Orléans informed, "Henri, our sister Marguerite and I spent all the time here, at Villers-Cotterêts, but I would prefer to return to Fontainebleau and Saint-Germain-en-Laye once the Spanish are defeated. Our tutors have praised our accomplishments in English, Italian, Flemish, German, and Latin." He paused, his censorious gaze flickering to the dauphin, and castigated, "However, Henri dines in private with Madame Diane de Poitiers too often, neglecting our company. He strongly prefers to be with her instead of his wife."

The monarch flicked his troubled gaze to his elder son. "Is that true, Henri?"

The dauphin emptied his goblet and slammed it on the table, positioned between his and his brother's chairs. He stared at his parent with a blend of challenge and rebellion. "Yes, it is. Your Majesty knows that I did not want to wed that Italian daughter of merchants. Nevertheless, you forced me to enter into a marriage I loathe more than I despise the Holy Roman Emperor."

Charles' glare condemned Henri. "Henri, do not you dare disrespect our father! You–"

"Let him speak, Charles," interrupted François, his gaze never leaving the dauphin's face. "Henri, I know which thoughts are hovering at the edges of your mind." He raised his voice to accentuate the point. "You have not forgiven me for your sufferings in Spain. You crave to hold me accountable for my selfishness, and for what you might call cruelty towards you."

This candor caused the dauphin's control to slip. "I can neither forget nor forgive! Your Majesty has long become more selfish than Narcissus. You do love yourself, your court, and your countless mistresses far more than you feel for your own children."

Charles frowned at his sibling. "That is falsehood! You are despicable!"

Henri glowered at his brother as if he were an insect. "Charles, you blame me for lying," he stilled for a second, his glare dashing to his father, "when he is the one who is lying! He says that we are precious to him, yet he sent our deceased brother and me to Madrid so that he could return to France and be happy with his whores – Françoise de Foix, Anne de Pisseleu, and other prostitutes, whose names he can barely remember. He betrayed our poor mother with numberless paramours, and she was so broken that she cried her eyes to sleep every night."

François reached for his goblet, lifted it to his lips, and drained the contents in an attempt to maintain the illusion of control. "That is enough out of you, son."

His anger boiling like hot lava, Henri bounced to his feet. "Everything I've said can be proved. The whole court is aware of your countless amours and my mother's unrequited love for you and your neglect of her. The entirety of Christendom knows that you abandoned your two sons and dispatched them to Spain." His voice rose in a crescendo of rage, ringing through the air. "We starved and cried in our small, damp cell, while you thrived and enjoyed life."

Charles spat, "Henri, shut up! Never insult our father who is your king in the first place."

François' response was surprising. "It is all right. Do not berate him, Charles."

Dauphin Henri beheld his father fearfully. He anticipated that his outrageous misconduct would be punished severely. Instead, his parent covered the gap between them and engulfed him into a tight, affectionate embrace, and Henri's arms went around the king's back.

After a short while, the king disentwined himself from his son. "Well, we could have smothered each other. Then who would have won the last battle against the emperor?"

Charles was relieved that their father's temper had not been exacerbated by the dauphin's shenanigans. "Our legendary Father! Soon you will expel the Imperial barbarians! Even brave and powerful Hercules is not as great as our beloved Knight-King is!"

Grinning, François intoned, "You are flattering me."

"No!" protested the Duke d'Orléans. "It is as true as the fact that night follows day."

The monarch strolled back to his chair. "Hercules was mentioned in some Roman myths. The famed Mark Antony considered him a personal patron god, as did the wicked Roman Emperor Commodus." A laugh spilled out of him. "I've always sympathized with the tragedy of Mark Antony's life and his fatal love for Cleopatra. Nevertheless, I cannot be associated with Hercules, because the hero was also used by Commodus to stress his own false divinity."

The Dauphin of France and the younger Valois prince returned to their chairs.

François regarded the two youths with warmth. The king loved both of his surviving sons dearly, but Charles was undeniably his favorite thanks to the boy's likeness to him. Charles had taken after him in both looks and appearance, and the prince's eccentric deportment was appealing. Henri's somberness and reticence were in stark contrast to his younger sibling's vivacity, charm, and outspokenness. After their return from Madrid, the young François – the eldest Valois prince and once the heir apparent to the throne – had been as serious and somber as Henri, but still more easy-going and optimistic than the seemingly always depressed Henri.

The ruler's thoughts dwelled on his difficult relationship with the dauphin. The horrible imprisonment in Madrid had upended the previously blithesome childhood of Henri and François. Their trauma had been so deep that both princes had started wearing dark colors after their return home. _That damned captivity!_ François cursed mentally, his fists clenched to his sides. _At least, my eldest son was not hostile towards me; he understood why I had no choice but to send him and Henri to the emperor's prison in my stead. Will Henri ever comprehend and forgive me?_

They desperately needed a frank conversation, so François braced himself against a wave of contrition and anguish. "Henri," he addressed the dauphin. "I've long felt guilty for the ordeal you and your elder brother suffered in prison. Every time I remember those awful days, I almost expect that the fire and brimstone will fall upon me from heaven."

The heat of shame colored Henri's cheeks. "Father, I'm so sorry for my words. I had no right to pronounce those horrendous things, which slipped from my tongue."

Charles commented dryly, "At least, you have finally realized that."

The king shook his head towards Charles, and then told Henri, "On the contrary, I'm glad that you voiced important matters which have long troubled you. You are my son, but sometimes, your mind seems to be like a thick midnight forest, through which you cannot even wander."

"I, too, often think so," put in Charles.

Henri blushed more. "I do apologize if my behavior frustrates everyone."

"No!" the king hollered. "I blame myself for my failure to find a way out of the mess I dragged myself into after the ignominious defeat of the French at Pavia. Perhaps, after my capture, I should have fallen onto my sword instead of surrendering."

"No!" This time, it was Henri from whose lips had produced the strong words of denial. "Do not say that, Father! You had no choice but to capitulate."

François loathed himself for his old political missteps, which had led to all those events. "Henry of Navarre, your Aunt Marguerite's husband, fled, while I did not even try to. To escape would have gone against my code of honor, so I waited for my transportation to Spain."

Prince Charles growled, "The emperor is a skunk without honor and conscience. He can be defeated only through craft, and he does not deserve any mercy."

The ruler sighed. "I understand that now. That failure changed me a great deal."

Henri did not concur. "Father, chivalry is a rare gem in a dark and inequitable world. It makes you who you are – the honorable Knight-King who is loved by his subjects."

The king gave him a long stare. "Do you really think so?"

The dauphin inclined his head. "Yes, I do."

The monarch's consciousness floated to his heir's reproving speech. "In early youth, I was impulsive and restless. Being hungry for power, land, and fame, I dreamed of conquering the Duchy of Milan, which belongs to me by my birthright, and even the whole of Italy. I was prone to making rash decisions and acting on emotion without thinking of the consequences."

Charles confided, "I'm dreaming of attaining glory on the battlefields of Italy." His face twisted into a soundless sob. "Those brave Frenchmen who were slaughtered at the Battle of Arles and in our other provinces…" His voice halted as a tide of anguish swept over him, and a flush of ire colored his cheeks crimson. "We must avenge their deaths and kill those Habsburg thugs."

Henri scowled. "Father, I crave to join our army to smash the Imperial foe into pieces."

The king's response was a strict prohibition. "Never! I cannot lose either of you."

In spite of their disagreement, Charles and Henri nodded their comprehension. François looked at them like a proud, devoted father, and these moments of their nearly tangible mutual affection erased the bitter taste of the dauphin's earlier confrontation with the monarch.

When François and Henri exchanged smiles, the world seemed so perfect. _In such rare moments, we are just loving father and devoted son,_ the dauphin cried silently with delight.

François blew out a puff of air in vexation. "We should not have engaged with the enemy at Pavia. Our first success – when the entire force of our gendarmes scattered the Spanish – went to my head. What a fool I was to think that I was invincible like salamanders! Another day and night passed, and once light streaked through the sky, a mass of Imperial pikemen and arquebusiers descended upon our cavalry from all sides. We did not realize the magnitude of the attack at first, while lacking room to maneuver because of the neighboring woods. Thereupon, our gendarmes were encircled and brutally killed, while our infantry was broken and routed."

The two princes had already been taught the arts of war, but it was the first time that their royal parent had told them a real war story. "That is horrible!" they chorused.

The king recollected, "I fought on until my horse was killed. Then I was surrounded by Spanish arquebusiers, taken prisoner, and escorted from the field."

Charles snarled, "I hate the emperor! We must capture him!"

"We will," Henri hissed with a hint of overconfidence that was noticed by his father.

François regarded his son suspiciously. "Henri, what is on your mind?"

The dauphin was a picture of innocent confusion. "I do not know what you mean."

The ruler enjoined, "Henri, you must be actively involved in state affairs. Monty is your friend, but you need to make acquaintance with my other ministers."

A grin flowered across Henri's visage. "Gladly! Thank you, Father!"

"My dear sons, you are not rivals!" the monarch insisted. "You both ought to be _true_ brothers: loving, caring, and ready to support one another at any time. Henri is my first heir, but I believe that you must both be knowledgeable about politics and government."

"With great pleasure," effused the Duke d'Orléans.

The dauphin's eyes darkened like thunderclouds. "Fate tends to destroy even the most best-laid plans. I may predecease all of you, and then Charles will inherit the throne."

Charles drew an irritated breath. "Your petty jealousy poisons you."

"I cannot," the other prince barked.

"Do not be envious, Henri," François chastised. "After your elder brother's death, you became my heir. Despite the persistent rumors that I will replace you as Dauphin of France, you must not be worried: I shall never betray you by taking your birthright away. Someone must have spread this gossip with the intention to drive a wedge between us."

Henri smiled. "Thank you for the assurance, Father, and I beg your pardon, again."

"Do you believe me now, son?" enquired the king.

"I do," the dauphin answered sincerely.

François emitted a sigh that had come from the depths of his soul. "I married Claude not out of love, but out of duty. Our marriage was agreed on by King Louis XII and your grandmother, Louise, without any regard for our desires." His brain was forming words to best describe his attitude to his first spouse. "Claude was intelligent, kind, and pious – a model queen, although she could also be as a strong and opinionated woman. Over time, I grew fond of Claude, but I never loved her. I believed that it was my kingly right to take a mistress whenever I wanted."

Charles interjected, "Father, you do not have to–"

The ruler interrupted, "I'm not justifying myself – I'm just explaining. I had a great many affairs in youth. Despite being discreet in most cases, I still paraded some of my mistresses around the court. Your mother knew of my infidelities, and they broke her heart because she fell in love with me." Contrition colored his tone as he supplemented, "I failed to return her feelings. I could have treated her more respectfully, and I'm sorry for my mistakes."

The dauphin looked thoroughly touched. "Thank you, Father."

François continued, "Claude and I were tied by our dynastic marriage and our children." His gaze fastened to Henri's face. "Your political union with Catherine de' Medici should have secured for France an alliance with the Pope and the Medicis. The previous Pope died and did not pay out Catherine's dowry, but I still think we may benefit from this marriage. I must admit that I'm also impressed with Catherine's intelligence and her keenness to please."

Henri frowned in disgust. "Catherine repels me."

Charles rolled his eyes. "And Diane does not?!"

The dauphin fired back, "Do not insult Diane!"

"Enough!" The ruler's voice boomed through the room like a canon blast. "There must be no clashes between brothers. I do not want to ever hear or see anything like this again."

"Of course," the two princes rasped, although neither of them meant it.

Their father switched to the dauphin's marital problems. "Henri, your marriage, though unwanted, may become interesting for you. Your mama and I were allies and friends, in spite of our differences. You two may find common ground. Give this marriage a try!"

Henri's brows furrowed sullenly. "After she gives me a son, I'll leave her bedroom."

"That is the least you must do," acquiesced François.

The Duke d'Orléans inquired, "How is our stepmother fairing?"

To conceal the anguish in his eyes, the monarch gazed out at the small hill hunched in opaque silhouette against the darkening heavens. "Anne is feeling quite well. Doctor Fernel says that if she stays in bed until the delivery, she and the baby will be all right."

The King of France was pleased that his sons – even Dauphin Henri who advocated the persecution of heretics – seemed to like Anne. Henri was not happy that Anne had been permitted to worship Protestantism in private, but he had accepted her as his stepmother. Unlike the dauphin, Charles was a member of his Aunt Marguerite's literary circles, where the teachings of Calvin and Luther were read and discussed, and the prince had much in common with Anne. François was both relieved and delighted that his queen had been respected and admired by his relatives.

§§§

The afternoon was wearing away when Catherine Maria Romula de' Medici, Dauphine of France, appeared in the queen's suite. She strode into Queen Anne's bedroom like a breath of fresh air, in the splendor of her adolescence; like a force of nature showed by her determined gait.

"Your Highness," Queen Anne greeted. "Welcome to my humble dwelling."

"I hope I'm not intruding." Catherine's voice was flat.

A hint of a smile twitched across Anne's mouth. "Of course, not."

A teenaged woman strolled to the queen's bed. Dauphine Catherine carried herself with regal dignity and unattainability, and Anne's attention attracted the inquisitive expression of her hazel, deep-set eyes separated by a straight, narrow nose. The singular mobility and intelligence of Catherine's strict countenance unusually contrasted with her shyness, which she, however, could have displayed only because of her first private meeting with the queen.

Catherine's short stature looked heartbreakingly petite in her Italianate gown of purple velvet, with brown velvet sleeves trimmed with golden lace; the neckline and the bodies were lined with fur. Wound with ribbons and twisted up into knots of various shapes with the ends hanging free, her long brown hair was covered by a Florentine headdress. Everything about Catherine was blandness, timidity, and insinuation, from the angle of her jaw to her sharp chin, to every controlled motion, slow and gracious, a slight smile lending a wisp of kindness to her pale face.

The dauphine lowered herself into a curtsey. "Your Majesty, I wish you all the best."

At Anne's nod, Catherine seated herself in a chair by the royal bed. Their gazes locked, while the atmosphere of tense inquisitiveness around them was growing thicker and heavier.

"How is Your Majesty feeling?"

Anne chuckled. "If French ladies learn how much free time I have to devote exclusively to myself, they would be envious enough to bite their thumbs off."

The dauphine smirked at her jest. "They are simply jealous of you. Everyone at court is aware that His Majesty is worried about his wife; far more worried than he has ever been about any of his wives and mistresses. Many courtiers are discussing that."

"Let them talk. Even four horses cannot overtake the tongue of scandalmongers."

At this, Catherine laughed. "Yes, no one can sew buttons on their neighbor's mouth."

The queen perused the dauphine more closely. Catherine was not stunning at all, and her budging eyes were her least attractive feature. However, there was a certain charm of intelligence and mystery about her. As Catherine smiled, her eyes changed, becoming extraordinary – warm and trusting, and at this moment, Anne felt as if she could look into the woman's soul.

Anne broke the pause. "I'm glad you have paid me a visit, Your Highness. My husband and some others told me many awesome things about you."

"King François is an extremely enlightened man, who takes pride in his unparalleled role in the spreading of education and culture throughout France. He has not annulled my marriage to Henri only because he admires my education and intelligence."

Her straightforwardness surprised the queen, who also spoke directly and comfortingly. "Be at ease! You are young and can bear many heirs for Dauphin Henri."

"My husband spends too much time with his mistress," Catherine complained.

Anne made obvious conclusion. "Are you seeking an alliance with me, Madame?"

Catherine chewed her lip. "If it is possible, Your Majesty."

"Cheer up!" The queen pointed a finger at her. "There is a remedy against your lack of pregnancy. I'll bring your problem to His Majesty's notice and ask him to talk sense into Dauphin Henri. You cannot conceive if your husband frequents his paramour's bed relentlessly."

Gratitude flooding her features, Catherine flashed a sweet, but cautious, smile. "Thank you so much, Your Majesty! You are my guardian angel! God bless you and your child!"

A joyful Catherine was a pleasing sight to behold. Having experienced difficulties with childbearing in England, Anne felt closer to the other woman after their candid conversation, and even blessed to have the opportunity to assist her in salvaging her marriage.

Suddenly, blandness filtered into Catherine's eyes, the secrets of her soul concealed once more. If Anne had not seen the soft look in them before, she would not have believed such a quick change was possible. The warmth in Catherine's orbs cooled, their color becoming darker until her eyes resembled a pair of sparkling onyxes – remote and withdrawn. The dauphine's face Anne was seeing now was the one Catherine showed to the world, the one most people saw.

"I have a gift for Your Majesty," the dauphine apprised.

One of her Italian ladies-in-waiting, who waited for her in the antechamber, entered. She passed the object wrapped in golden and blue brocade to Catherine, who gave it to Anne.

"This is wonderful!" Anne cried while unfolding it. " _The Prince_ by Niccolò Machiavelli! You must have brought this book from Florence because it was prohibited in France."

"That is true. I have many books by Italian humanists and philosophers."

"Does His Majesty know about that? Did he permit you to have these books?"

"Only to me," Catherine pointed out. "I'm sure he will not mind if you have it."

Anne smiled her slimiest smile. "Well, I hope he is not greedy."

The dauphine's gaze drifted to a black marble table in the corner, where a multitude of books lay stacked, a few open. "May I have a look at them?"

"Of course, but I fear you will not consider my stock of books very interesting."

Catherine stood up and crossed to the table. She read aloud the titles of a few volumes. " _Commentaries on the Gallic War_ by François Desmoulins de Rochefort, _Paraphrases of the Whole of Aristotle's Natural Philosophy_ by Jacques Lefèvre d'Étaples, as well as _the Praise of Folly_ , _the Education of a Christian Prince_ , and _Foundations of the Abundant Style_ by Erasmus."

"These are wonderful works!" the dauphine assessed. "I guess you have many more."

"I do," the queen confirmed. "I especially love reading Erasmus." She had developed this habit during her long courtship with Henry when they had debated about many books.

Catherine picked up one of the volumes by Erasmus and began turning over the pages. "May I borrow _the Ecclesiastes_ by Erasmus? It is his new work published three years ago. I know that it is about effective preaching, and I'm interested in this subject."

Anne nodded. "Of course."

"I'll return it to you soon." The dauphine strolled back to the bed.

"I'd like to take a nap." The queen yawned, her hand flying to her mouth.

As Catherine bobbed a curtsey and stepped backwards, Anne exhaled her breath in a rush. As soon as her stepson's spouse exited, relief swathed over her, like flickering shadows from candles. The dauphine was someone who could undergo metamorphosis several times just within half an hour, like a chameleon. _God in Heaven! Catherine has done nothing wrong to me, but I do not want to have any contact with her,_ Anne speculated with a sense of confused wonder.

"I do not like her," the queen said to herself as she shut her eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

 _I hope you liked this chapter._

 _King François arrived at court that now resides at Château de Villers-Cotterêts. He could not come earlier because of heavy snowfalls. His conversation with Queen Anne shows that François is worried about his wife and their unborn child, but she does not want them to become closer because of her fears. After his quarrel with Anne, the king reverts to his traditional hedonistic ways so that he can forget Anne's almost hostile attitude to him, and then he sleeps with Claude de Rohan-Gié._

 _Both Françoise de Foix and Queen Marguerite of Navarre, the king's sister, tell François that he is falling for his wife. It is true that François is slowly falling in love with Anne, but they are still almost strangers to each other. François spent a great deal of time away from court because he is fighting against the Imperial invaders. As soon as the war is over, and the monarch returns to court, he will have more time to spend it with his unwilling queen and to allow her to get to know him better._

 _In this chapter, you also get insight into the relationship of Prince Charles and Dauphin Henri with François. Henri blames his royal father for his captivity in Spain – captivity that deeply traumatized him. Fortunately, François swallows his rage and has a candid conversation with his eldest son. At the same time, Dauphine Catherine de' Medici pays a visit to Anne and asks her to become her ally because Henri spends too much time in Diane de Poitiers' bed, which is why she cannot conceive. I wonder what you think of Anne's conversation with Anne and of Catherine's portrayal. Anne is wary of Catherine because she feels if not the other woman's pretense, but something in Catherine that makes her alarmed, and Anne is right because Catherine does not want her to have sons with François._

 _Please let me know what you think in your reviews! Thank you very much in advance!_

 _Anacreontea (Greek: Ἀνακρεόντεια) is the title given to a collection of some 60 Greek poems on the topics of wine, beauty, erotic love, Dionysus, etc. The poems date to between the 1st century BC and the 6th century AD, and they are attributed to Anacreon. All the works of Erasmus, Jacques Lefèvre d'Étaples, and François Desmoulins de Rochefort (King François' tutor) really exist._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	16. Chapter 15: Murder and Triumph

**Chapter 15: Murder and Triumph**

 ** _February 20, 1537, Palace of Whitehall, London, England_**

Numerous lords and ladies had congregated in the royal presence chamber. A sense of urgent curiosity was pervasive among them, as they watched their liege lord's meeting with the leader of the dangerous revolt in the north of England against King Henry. A trepidatious silence ensued as Robert Aske crossed to the throne and made his obeisance, his head bowed low.

"Welcome to our court," the monarch's voice boomed like a cathedral organ.

Attired in a doublet of flame-colored brocade, a furred velvet mantle of the same hue, and orange hose, the Tudor ruler sat in his gilded throne under a red silk canopy of state. With his reddish brows lowered forbiddingly, the line of his mouth grim, Henry regarded the assemblage sternly. His countenance softened a little as his scrutiny concentrated on his guest.

Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, was as pale as a whitewashed gravestone; he stepped away from the throne. At the foot of the throne stood Will Sommers, the king's favorite jester, and near him the Duke of Suffolk. The Seymour brothers, and a number of other nobles – all Cromwell's open enemies – were present as well. Queen Jane Seymour and Lady Mary Tudor, who were both dressed in modest white gowns ornamented with pearls, wore expressions of anticipation.

Lady Mary Stafford née Boleyn had found her refuge in the distant corner, together with her uncle – Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk. For an instant, no one breathed, and Mary's chest was tight with fright as she observed Aske, who froze on his knees in front of the monarch.

"This long silence," began Norfolk, "is an effective way to make Aske frightened. This man is leading the rebellion against the Crown. So, His Majesty must put him in his place."

Her heart galloped like a panicked horse. "Will clemency be extended to them all?"

He disregarded her question. "The king keeps the traitor on his knees for so long in order to humiliate him. Aske does not want to die, and he knows it is best to stay meek."

Mary inwardly shuddered, for Norfolk's sneer was a mixture of derision, scorn, and something ominous that she could not fathom out yet. _What does his unsavory smile communicate? Does it foreshadow something bad? Why am I feeling as if the end of the world were now upon me?_ A tangle of questions tumbled through her head, and her dominant emotion was mistrust.

Thomas Howard was a self-serving man driven by ambition and a thirst for wealth and power, as well as an absolute faith in the superiority of the Howards over anyone else. Mary Stafford would never forgive Norfolk for the vile betrayal of Anne and George as the duke had condemned them to death while having presided as Lord High Steward over their unjust trials. However, in the situation when William Stafford was one of the leaders of _the Pilgrimage of Grace_ , Mary had overlooked her hatred for the man and begged him to intervene on her husband's behalf.

Several weeks earlier, the royal forces under the command of the Dukes of Norfolk and of Suffolk had spotted the troops of the so-called pilgrims, which consisted of about forty thousand men, near Yorkshire. Aske had coined the phrase _'Pilgrimage of Grace'_ to describe their actions as a pilgrimage to the sovereign of England in order to stop the attacks on the monastic houses and to have the realm restored to the Holy Father in Rome. The insurgents were not a rabble: they were a disciplined and well-organized force, many of whom had fighting experience as they had faced confrontations with the Scots on the country's northern border for years. Being significantly outnumbered, the royal troops had not engaged with the foe.

After William Stafford had joined the rebellion, ignoring his wife's pleas not to participate, Mary had gone to the north together with their two children. She had been in Lincoln when the royal page had delivered the monarch's invitation to court for Robert Aske and his close followers, including Robert Constable and William Stafford, for negotiations. Fearful for her spouse's life, Mary had accompanied him to London, where she had found the Duke of Norfolk immediately upon their arrival. At Whitehall, Stafford, together with Mary, and Constable had been lodged in modest, but comfortable, rooms, but only Aske had been allowed to meet with their liege lord.

Whatever more her uncle said to her, Mary paid no heed to it, as her attention was focused on the rebel, who finally climbed to his feet at the ruler's sign. As the piercing stare of Henry's chilly aquamarine eyes rested upon Robert Aske, a shiver raced down her spine, raising a trail of anxious goose bumps on her arms. It occurred to Mary that the monarch could have lured them all into some kind of trap, and Henry's leer presaged what the outcome might be.

Mary voiced her conclusion. "His Majesty will make false promises so that the rebels decide to disperse. But once the pilgrims go home, Aske's head will be on a spike."

"When has the flippant mistress of two kings become so astute?" Norfolk then changed his sarcastic tone for one of faux sadness. "Perhaps you are correct. Yet, it matters not, niece." He snaked a hand around her waist in an exaggeratedly protective manner. "Whatever happens to them, your pretty head will remain attached to your neck because I want it to be so."

She recoiled in revulsion, but he held her tight. "How dare you–"

"I dare," he barked, "because I have power. Shut up and watch."

Mary glanced at the rebel, who awkwardly dropped into another bow to his liege lord.

"Your Majesty," Robert Aske pronounced coarsely.

"Mr Aske, come closer." King Henry motioned for him to move forward.

"Thank you." The man took a series of tentative steps towards the throne.

The ruler's expression of fake sweetness disgusted Lady Stafford. "I'm very glad to see you, Mr Aske. I must confess that, for a long time, I believed that I was badly misinformed about the causes of disturbances in the northern part of our kingdom. However, I've recently read your full and frank explanation, and I've been persuaded by the justice of your cause. You see I deem the commonwealth of our realm and love of my subjects as far more precious than any riches."

This evoked repugnance in Anne Boleyn's sister. The same feeling she had experienced when years ago, a grinning Henry had discarded her – a love-struck foolish girl back then – with his child in her womb, and wished her happiness with her cuckolded husband. _The king is lying through his teeth. Lying has long become his second nature,_ Mary lamented, disbelief and horror vying for the upper hand. _His cold eyes and his presumptuous grin speak louder than words. He has sentenced all of the participants of the uprising to cruel death._ Henry portrayed himself as a benevolent ruler, while in reality he did not care about the people, hankering to spill their blood.

Mary's veins were freezing like ice. "There is the look of the monster he has become in his eyes. He would kill anyone to meet his lusts and to punish disobedience."

"Fortunately, no one hears you, save me." Norfolk's voice was strained.

They concentrated on the unfolding scene. Everyone's inquisitive looks indicated that they had not figured out Henry's scheme. The silence deepened, as if the monarch's speech brought forth a deeper endless night in the realm, as well as a tangible feeling of some sinister premonition.

Smiling broadly, Aske replied, "I'm humbled by Your Majesty's words. Thank you so much for being so wise and so kind! But I must ask whether Your sacred Majesty intends to fulfil those pledges made in your name by the Duke of Norfolk and the Duke of Suffolk."

"In every part," Henry continued the charade. "I'll be more merciful than any other king. The general and liberal pardon shall be extended to all our northern subjects. There will be a free and lawful election to a Parliament of York every year, where all of the clergy and churchmen, without fear to cause our displeasure, will display their learning and speak their minds. Furthermore, next year, we ourselves shall come to York to show our great love for the English people."

Robert Aske bestowed a grateful smile upon his sovereign. _This poor man does not sense any danger,_ Mary inferred dejectedly. _He and his friends are all as trapped as fishes in a fisherman's net. My dear William… Oh, my goodness! Not him!_ With a gargantuan effort, she stifled a howl of dread and pain, as her consciousness conjured the pictures of her husband's gruesome end. There must be something she could do to aid him, but her thoughts whirled in disjointed disorder.

As if reading her mind, the Duke of Norfolk growled, "Mary, stay here with me."

"I cannot," she mumbled, stepping forward. "I must save him!"

The grip of his hand held her firmly in place. "You cannot."

"He is my husband." Her voice was quieter than a whisper, but full of despair.

The duke admonished, "Stop panicking, you idiot! Your husband is a traitor whose days are numbered." His voice lowered to a dull growl. "Think of your children with Stafford."

Flashing him a hateful look, Mary answered nothing, and veered her gaze to the rebel.

Aske was still under the delusion that his liege lord wished them all well. "Your Majesty is truly so magnanimous! I swear that you shall find no more loving and loyal people in the whole of your realm than northern Yorkshire. We will glorify your name for all eternity!"

At the monarch's gesture, Robert Aske strode closer with a smile.

Henry broached another topic. "You have also written against some of my advisors, protesting at their lack of noble blood. It is too bold on your part, I must say."

Mary's lips lengthened into a vicious smirk as a muscle twitched in Cromwell's jaw. She abhorred that murderer, who had fabricated the charges against her siblings, with a loathing that deepened as time went by and was to sour for the rest of her life, unless she could avenge her sister's and George's downfalls. Now her spouse was in peril because of Cromwell's wickedness.

The mutineer flushed in spite of himself. "Your Majesty, I–"

The monarch cut him off. "I fully agree with you, but don't say anything. I assure you that all the enemies of the country will be dealt with." There was no malice in his stiff grin, only a trace of amusement, like when one watches a child mispronounce a word in a funny way.

Once again, a sense of loathing to the Tudor beast overwhelmed Mary Stafford. Her hate for the king ran so deeply that it was now embedded in her skin and bone, flowing through her blood unabated. Such a potent sentiment was more than she could bear, and she flicked her eyes to Queen Jane, whose face was all joy and pride for her royal spouse's mercy towards the folk. Jane's poor awareness fueled Mary's disdain further, and she wrenched out of Norfolk's grip.

Mary stomped towards the thrones, but her uncle pushed her back into the crowd.

She felt Norfolk's irate breathing upon her temple. "Don't dig your own grave."

"You are a godless scum, Your Grace!"

"Go!" Howard shoved his niece into the corridor and nearly dragged her to his apartments.

Having calmed down, Mary followed Norfolk, sullenly and submissively. They ascended the staircase and into another corridor, lined with portraits of English monarchs, which startled the unaccustomed eye here and there, as if they had been reflections cast from an ethereal world.

Mary paused in front of the portrait of King Henry VII. "His Majesty's father is looking at us with a promise of long-awaited peace for his war-battered realm." A laugh bubbled out of her. "Henry Tudor must now be spinning in his grave. If he could see his second son, who once seemed to have been destined for the Church, he would have been disappointed."

Norfolk emitted a sigh in partial concurrence. "I'm a Catholic, and I shall never abjure the true faith. His late Majesty, King Henry VII, could have been… bewildered." His words were mild, for he would never criticize his sovereign aloud. "He would have been proud as well."

"Really?" She made a face of disdain.

"As a reformer, you must thank your former lover for breaking with the Pope."

She retorted, "How could Henry VII be proud of that monster?"

"Watch your tongue," Norfolk advised gruffly. "Your stupid behavior and the revenge you crave will inflict only disgrace upon your offspring. Only I can save you, Mary."

The duke ushered the confused woman into his quarters and slammed the door.

§§§

Lady Mary Stafford opened her eyes with effort. She lay on a canopied bed that stood in the center of the room on a dais with marble tables and couches scattered around it. The surroundings were unfamiliar, and a handful of flickering candles did little to illuminate the shadowed area.

"Where am I?" Mary wondered, disoriented and somewhat perturbed.

She climbed out of bed and plodded over to a window. Her gait wavered, as if she suffered from vertigo, and she nearly stumbled; her temples and the back of her skull were hurting. She felt as if she had drunk herself into a stupor, although she had not consumed any alcohol today.

Cupping her temples with her both palms, Mary looked out. The royal park had gone into darkness, and snowflakes swirled like feathers falling from the firmament. The white blanket over the gardens stretched as far as the eye could reach, and the dark city loomed in the distance. With a degree of certainty that startled her, she presumed that she must have dozed off a while ago.

At the sound of footsteps in the adjacent room, she pivoted to face the door that bulged open to reveal the Duke of Norfolk. She gawked at him as he strode over to where she froze.

"What happened?" inquired Mary.

He stopped beside her. "They were all arrested and jailed in the Tower."

"Who?" She was now nothing but panic stitched together with threads of terror.

"Robert Aske, Robert Constable, and William Stafford were all apprehended. You are lucky to have been asleep while the arrests took place. There was too much noisy drama in the palace."

In a funereal silence, Mary swiveled to the window. The dainty shimmer of stars, draped across the black heavens, mimicked the sprinkle of snow caught up in the crisp breeze. The frosty weather mirrored the chill in her soul, which only the sound of William's laughter could warm.

She could not believe her uncle. "Where is my William?"

His response cut through her like a million daggers. "In the Tower. Soon his bill of attainder will be passed. Then he will be executed without trial, like his conspirators."

Mary fumbled backwards to a nearby wall. Desolate, she leaned against it and slid to sit on the floor with her legs folded and her knees under her chin. "William," she sobbed. "No, he cannot die! Not my beloved William! He cannot just disappear from my life!"

There was something so piteous in the distraught woman's cries that they raised compassion in Norfolk's cold heart. He approached her and stood, watching her weep for a handful of heartbeats before putting an arm around her and hoisting her to her feet, then steadying her.

"Mary, you are alive. That is all that matters."

She hiccuped. "My father expelled me from the family and disowned me after my wedding to William. Why have you suddenly started caring for me, uncle?"

It was the moment of truth for Norfolk. "Whether you believe me or not, I did not wish any harm to come to Anne and George. However, the king yearned to be free of Anne and to wed Jane Seymour. To safeguard the Howard family, myself, and my power, I had to distance myself from them because they both were a lost cause." He heaved a sigh. "I paid a heavier price than ever to keep myself safe. But… I could not allow His Majesty to destroy you."

Perfect befuddlement painted itself across her visage. "Why?"

"You reckon that I'm an unfeeling man, who disposes of those who stand in my way to power without compunction. But even men like me may have moments of weakness."

Mary deduced, "Did the king order to arrest me as well? He must wish to take my life after his failure to murder Anne. After all, I was in the north during the uprising before coming here."

"Yes," confirmed the duke. "After the audience with Aske, I led you to my quarters. We talked for a short time, and then I gave you a slumberous draught. After you had fallen asleep, I commanded to bring your children to my rooms; they are waiting for you here."

Hope brightened her tearful features. "My Annie and Edward are both unscratched?"

"Hale and hearty; they must now be asleep. But you will still have to travel."

"What?" A puzzled Mary wiped the tears away.

"My niece," the Duke of Norfolk said, pointing to the cord with a Boleyn pendant around her neck. "Although Anne has always been considered the most spirited and opportunistic one of the Boleyn siblings, you are also seeking your own will. You yearn to live the way you like and act the way you believe is right, even if it goes against the law and society rules you are bound to obey. If you were like other women, you would never have married William Stafford – a soldier with nothing in his pockets. How will you find your path? It is not a thing of choice, but a thing determined by destiny that leads you to where you must be. And now your place is not in England."

Confusion tinted her eyes. "Explain."

He clasped her hands in his. "Mary, you cannot help Stafford. No one can." He stilled as he discerned reprehension in her gaze. "Not even me," he underscored. "Your husband made his bed when he supported the revolt. His Majesty will have the heads of every man who dared rebel against him; he enjoined to have even women and children punished."

Horror manifested on her countenance. "King Henry is a callous beast! He shall be damned to the deepest pits of hell if he goes through this plan!" Her hand flew to her mouth as a realization dawned upon her. "Our children! Have they been condemned too?"

The agitated glint in his gaze spoke more loudly than any words. "Catherine and Henry Carey have been estranged from you since your second marriage. Therefore, nothing bad will happen to them. Catherine is His Majesty's daughter, though an unacknowledged one, and so she will be all right. At the same time, you must take Stafford's children out of England."

The sight of her uncle's uncharacteristically worried face aroused in Mary a sharp longing for her family – for all her offspring, Anne, and her mother, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn née Howard, but not her father. "That monster will learn that you aided me to escape."

"I'll weasel out of any charge. But as a king's man, I'll do my duty regardless of my opinion."

Solemn glances of comprehension were interchanged. A tide of fledging respect for her uncle rushed through Mary, but then the old sensation of caution around the man superseded it.

Touching her shoulder as if to say farewell to her, Thomas Howard uttered, "You will join Anne at King François' court. Everything has been arranged for your voyage."

"Oh, Anne, my sister!" Mary broke into a bemused chuckle. "I've missed her so! And I've been afraid for her safety since learning about the invasion of France."

Norfolk walked to a table in the corner. "Be vigilant during your journey, especially in France. Some provinces are occupied by the Spaniards, but my men know which places to avoid."

She noticed that he was emotionally exhausted; such a rare thing when one could see this man without masks of pomposity. "You going really to be okay, Uncle?"

Norfolk grinned uncharacteristically kindly. "Niece, you are addressing me as Uncle again? Well, perhaps not all is lost for a devil like me. The past year has had its toll on me."

"Be careful," was all Mary could say. "Will you safeguard Princess Elizabeth?"

"Anne's daughter is at Hatfield, and I have no access there without the king's permission. Do not worry about her: Lady Margaret Bryan and Lady Margery Horsman are taking good care of her. Lady Horsman joined the princess' household after Anne had gone into exile to France."

"My sister must have asked Margery to do that. Anne and she are close friends."

The Duke of Norfolk grabbed his cap of black velvet with two ostrich plumes from the table. As he adjusted it on his head, he said, "Tomorrow is another day, Mary. Don't think about the past – focus on the future. Trust me: everything is going to be fine. We ought to leave."

§§§

Abysmal grief crashed upon Mary while Norfolk and his three most reliable servants escorted her and her children through the maze of corridors. Visions of her life with William Stafford flashed through her mind: their meeting in Calais, their marriage, the birth of little Annie and Edward, and their happy life in poverty, short like a winter day. Her heart was slipping into a void of hurt.

At midnight, the hallways were empty, yet footsteps were clacking against the floor.

"Wait here," the Duke of Norfolk instructed.

Nodding at her uncle, Mary ushered the children into a niche in the wall.

Annie yawned. "Mama, are we leaving?"

"Why are we hiding?" Edward also yawned. "I want to sleep."

"Shhh!" Mary put a finger to her lips. "We must escape before… it is too late."

"And papa?" Annie and Edward chorused.

"Be quiet," Mary whispered. "Please…" A tear fled from her eye.

One of Norfolk's men interjected, "We are awaiting His Grace."

Footsteps were approaching, and discovery seemed imminent for the fugitives. Then Norfolk spoke, and Mary recognized the voice of the man who responded to her uncle.

"Not sleeping, Your Grace?" Sir Nicholas Carew enquired.

"Insomnia," the duke answered. "You don't look happy, Sir Carew."

Carew grouched, "Years ago, I was frequently sent on embassies to Paris. King Henry wanted again to dispatch me to the French court so as to help Sir Nicholas Wotton – but I refused."

"It was reckless of you to act so. You must obey His Majesty."

Carew spat, "I cannot when the Boleyn whore rules the Valois court."

"You still hate Anne so?" Norfolk then listed the privileges the man had obtained. "The king appointed you knight of the Order of the Garter. Once you lost the royal favor because of Wolsey's intrigues, but later you were restored to the Privy chamber. You were made the junior knight of the shire for Surrey. All these thanks to Anne! Moreover, Anne and you are relatives."

Mary fisted her hands into balls. Nicholas Carew and the Boleyn sisters were related via their great-great-grandfather – Thomas Hoo, Baron Hoo and Hastings. It irked her that Anne had helped their many greedy relatives, but they had all abandoned her or turned on her. None of them treasured the privileges Anne's ascendance to the royal position had secured for them.

"That witch is nothing to me," Carew blustered. "I'm sad that she had not been executed, or better burned. Her place is not on the throne of any country, but in hell."

Norfolk looked around. "Be quiet, Carew. The king does not wish to hear her name."

"I should have been more careful; thank you, Your Grace." Carew's head swiveled back and forth, as he fearfully examined his surroundings several times. "Nobody heard us."

"So, you are staying in England?"

Carew spoke freely, for the duke had cut Anne out of the Howard clan. "Despite being angry with me for my refusal, the king also offered me to go to Bologna on a diplomatic mission, and I consented. I hope not to be absent for long, for I must take care of the king's eldest daughter. Poor young princess…erm... lady! She returned to court, but her father has been distant from her."

"Good luck, Sir Nicholas." Norfolk reckoned that the man was a fool to trust him.

"Likewise, Your Grace." Carew was surprised by such an abrupt end of their conversation.

After Carew's departure, Norfolk hastened to find his niece and the others.

"All is well." The duke took Annie in his arms. "Quickly!"

"I loathe Carew," Mary stung icily. "He is an ungrateful douchebag."

"Gratitude is nothing in power games." He indicated towards the right corridor. "This way!"

As soon as they exited the palace, Mary was swept by a profound sense of bereavement at the realization that her former life was gone forever. At present, she hated the English ruler with an insane fervor, which made her ready to sacrifice her soul to this all-consuming passion, as if it were a deity to be worshipped with self-destruction. _Henry Tudor is guilty of William's imminent death and of George's demise. If only I could extract vengeance upon him,_ Mary mused.

* * *

 ** _March 21, 1537, near the city of Poitiers, Poitou, France_**

The previous weeks had been unusually chilly for this time of year. The snow hadn't yet thawed since the temperature was low, as if Thallo, the Greek goddess of spring, had no power.

The day was cold and crisp; it had stopped snowing in the morning, so the visibility was normal. Hours before sunset, the French troops were camped near the forest of Nouaillé. The army, which had arrived in Poitiers a week earlier, consisted of approximately three thousand bowmen, five thousand men-at-arms, and a force of five thousand infantry and six thousand cavalry.

As the Valois leader walked to the front ranks, the knights bowed to him.

"Please!" King François paused in the circle of his soldiers. "There is no need for that. We are here as brothers-in-arms to fight for our country against Emperor Carlos."

Yet, the men bowed again in reverence. Others began streaming for where the ruler stood.

In a voice dripping with conviction, François proclaimed, "Now Ferdinand von Habsburg is our prisoner. The Imperial troops are depleted on the back of our victory in Chamerolles, and they suffer from decreasing morale due to their losses." He surveyed them, his eyes glimmering with sacred knowledge of their success. "Conditions are ripe for triumph. We shall win!"

"Long live His Majesty King François!"

"Our great Knight-King will lead us to victory!"

"God bless our chivalrous sovereign!"

"Save and protect our ruler from the vile emperor!"

The monarch saluted his subjects. "Today, we face one of the most compelling challenges in our history. Some might die as heroes today, and they shall never be forgotten." His voice rose in a crescendo of devotion to their homeland. "With faith in our honorable future, our triumph will be a great achievement not only for the nation, but also for all the people who value harmony above dissension, friendship above animosity, and prosperity above devastation."

A chorus of approval boomed like a hundred cannons firing at once.

The monarch's countenance was imbued with endless gratitude to his subjects. "I thank all those who have been staunch in their loyalty to me, your sovereign, and unflagging in their efforts to help France overcome our difficulties. I'll keep resolute in our quest for victory."

Deafening shouts of adoration for their liege lord rang out like a million bells.

François moved his speech to the closure. "God shall bless us, my beloved subjects!" He then quoted Julius Caesars' illustrious words, " _Veni, vidi, vici!_ "

"Lord save and protect the Knight-King!"

"Death to that Spanish barbarian and his brother!"

"We shall destroy the Imperial foe, utterly and completely!"

"Long live King François and Queen Anne!"

At this, the monarch smiled, pleased that his spouse was hailed. The French courtiers and even many commoners had conflicted feelings over having Anne as their queen.

The next proclamation was aimed at cultivating the new queen's reputation. "My dearest wife, Queen Anne, saved my life in the Battle of Chamerolles. She assisted us in securing alliances with the Protestant countries. She is a true heroine of France, and I'm proud of her."

This time, the response was less enthusiastic and even somewhat reluctant.

With a sigh of disappointment, the ruler prompted, "Ready for battle!"

Many approached the king, one of them Anne de Montmorency, Marshal of France.

François walked to Montmorency. "What of your report?"

A knavish grin creased the marshal's mouth. "Our spy counselled Emperor Carlos and his generals that their attack ought to be delivered on foot. He pointed out that their horses were vulnerable to our arrows at Chamerolles, which resulted in the heavy casualties on their part. The emperor heeded this advice: his army left its baggage train behind and formed up nearby."

The monarch broke into laughter. "Notwithstanding his valor and military talent, Carlos seems to have lost his vigilance due to fatigue. He has forgotten the lessons of history."

"Yes," concurred his companion. "This time, the French will win the Battle of Poitiers."

"The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble." The king crossed himself.

§§§

The prayer done, the Valois monarch returned to his tent and donned his armor. He then went back to the front lines and ordered the commanders to array their men in a defensive posture among the snow-laden hedges and, beyond them, an expanse of blinding white orchards and pastures.

For the French, the present situation mirrored that for the English before the Battle of Poitiers of 1356. The royal armies occupied vantage points on the natural high ground so that the bowmen would obtain a considerable advantage over the heavily armored Imperial masses. Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, deployed several divisions of archers behind a prominent thick hedge.

King François addressed his marshal. "During that dratted Hundred Years' War, Edward the Black Prince won the Battle of Poitiers thanks to the English longbow. Today, France will wash away the old shame of her ignominious defeat at the hands of foreign invaders."

"Amen to that." Montmorency raised his gaze to the heavens.

"How is the siege of Genoa progressing?"

"The Turks have been besieging Genoa, but the city is still resisting."

The monarch called for his men from the Scots guard to join the column. The Spanish footmen were now crossing the snow-covered field that was like white paper, on which the metallic figures of warriors cast the eerie likeness of startling phantasies of war. After ordering the French archers to be at the ready, François contemplated the front ranks of the Imperial cavalry rounding a bend of a frozen stream as his mind replayed the battle plan over and over again.

Suddenly, a recognizable Spanish voice cried, "Keep close together, men!"

An angry François gripped his reins. "That bastard is again disguised!"

Instantly, Montmorency barked to the guards, "Do not leave His Majesty alone!"

"Fire!" The king dismounted, and grabbed his own bow from his shoulder.

The Duke de Guise snickered. "Many insects will die in the next moment!"

At Guise's signal, many archers, who had been deployed on the wings in front of the cavalry, poured a volley of arrows upon the foreigners, many of whom slipped onto the earth, although some climbed to their feet. Arrows were again loosed to inflict more damage upon the foe before the Spanish infantry could advance. The compact bows of the French fighters, made of wood, horn, and tendon, could fire arrows with enough velocity to punch through even plate armor.

Smirking at the sight of their first success, François nocked an arrow. He chose a target: one of the front men carrying a broad standard, emblazoned with the Habsburg arms. Holding his breath, he let it fly and watched it strike the man in the thigh, below the shield. The Spaniard fell, and those behind tripped over him and helped him stand up just as François shot again.

Most of the Imperial men kept marching towards the French columns. Only a dozen yards to François' right, four of his men were injured, while another two spread out, firing crossbow bolts on the attackers. Someone hoisted his spear to throw it at the monarch, only to receive a bolt in the throat. The French rained down arrows and javelins on the adversary; François also continued shooting while being protected by Philippe de Chabot, who held a shield before him.

Many arrows hit home: hundreds of invaders were now piled up in the snow, reddened with their blood. Within the space of a few minutes, they were temporarily repelled.

"We have done it!" François lauded, and his men joined in his cheering.

"Retreat slightly!" Carlos shrilled to his comrades in Spanish. "Regroup!"

The emperor and his men started moving backwards in step and reached the center of the battlefield. The French gave chase to preclude them from escaping into the safety of the juxtaposed woods. The Imperial warriors had just enough time to form a semicircle around their master for his protection, which allowed François to figure out where his archrival was hiding.

"Capture Carlos!" François shouted above the din of the collision. He then shouldered his bow and ran to his destrier. "My men! Follow me!"

"Protect the king!" Montmorency enjoined. "At any cost!" He was awash with relief as Chabot and a small squad rushed after their foolhardy liege lord.

A horn sounded, and the French heard the rumble of hooves. That would be the foreign cavalry charging forward to aid the emperor, countered by the French cavalry that surged forward, pushing back the foe. This time, the French strengths matched those of the Holy Roman Empire, and the cavalries battled for half an hour, but eventually, the Spanish had to withdraw.

Someone killed the horse behind the Valois monarch, just as it had happened during the Battle of Pavia. Surrounded by adversaries from all sides, François remained as tranquil as one is in a serene hour of quietness. The king spotted the broad Habsburg standard of the approaching knight, who suddenly hurled a spear towards him. It struck François in the flank, but the blow was turned aside by his mail; he spun and slashed down, snapping the spear shaft in half.

"Who is it?" Straining his sight, François discerned the warrior whom he had wounded in the thigh at the beginning of the confrontation. "It is _him_!" he soliloquized.

Drawing his weapon, the ruler impaled one of his opponents; others glared at him through the visors of their helmets. A moment later, a sword rang off the back of François' helmet, and he staggered forward, blinking at the knight who came into view – the man was his worst enemy.

In these historical moments, Carlos von Habsburg personally faced François de Valois on the battlefield. The emperor's gray eyes exuded malicious glee, for he had circumvented his Valois counterpart, and his colossal hatred darkened them to the color of steel. Leering, Carlos wielded his weapon towards François, who instinctively veered away to evade a fatal blow.

"You will lose, Carlos!" promised François in accented Spanish.

The King of France cut down another adversary. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a sword flashing towards his skull. He swiftly ducked, avoiding Carlos' assault, but another blade was thrusting towards him, which he blocked at the very last moment. François spotted Chabot beside him, his gaze frightened because of his king's close brush with mortality.

"Thank you, my friend." The ruler smiled at his subject.

"Safeguard His Majesty!" Montmorency was trapped amongst the fighting mass.

The sun hung low in the dim gray firmament, throwing inky shadows across the field that was now littered with mutilated corpses and dead animals. Where the sun's bleak light fell, the snow on the blood-soaked ground glittered like rubies. From their mythological realm, the deities of war curiously observed the dramatic spectacle performed by the two powerful archenemies.

An anxious Guise endeavored to help his sovereign. However, the Swiss mercenaries, who also obeyed the emperor, launched a ferocious assault on the team of archers.

Propelled by his unbridled fury, King François slashed across the leg of Emperor Carlos. His opponent dropped to one knee, and François jumped to him, landing beside Carlos and glaring at him down with such Cyclopean loathing that the emperor anticipated that the blade would pierce his heart. However, the ruler of France froze until his eyes lost their murderous zeal.

François stepped back before hissing in Spanish, "I do not kill a fallen man."

Nonplussed, Carlos articulated in his native tongue, "Your code of honor might lead you to your grave." For the most part, they had spoken this language during François' captivity in Madrid.

All of a sudden, Don Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, who had distinguished himself in the Imperial conquest of Tunis, steered his unit to his master. Distracted, François and his men were pushed back a few feet before the charge was stalled by Montmorency's divisions.

The Duke of Alba and the emperor retraced the route Carlos had taken earlier to reach François for a duel. Countless arrows whizzed and whizzed on, and Alba raised his shield above his master's head and held it sideways. Thousands of French emerged out of the woods under the leadership of Claude d'Annebault, swarming the area like hungry vultures. However, the Spanish, though a losing party, showed rather stubborn resistance. Claude de Guise had the archers redeployed to a position where they could hit the unarmored sides and backs of the enemy's horses.

François joined the fight and soon lost track of the number of opponents he dispatched. All the time, Chabot and Annebault stayed by the monarch's side, both attentive and ruthlessly efficient. As the sun was setting, the sky glowed crimson, as if symbolizing the slaughter of the invaders. A French horn sounded three short blasts, signaling that now the Imperial forces were in full retreat. The war cries were replaced by groans of the dying and wounded, rippling through the frosty air.

The Valois ruler galloped around the perimeter of the field, searching for his mortal foe. His guards split up in their pursuit of the emperor, who had just disappeared with his loyal commander. The Duke of Alba's cries to evacuate the emperor steadily grew more dispersed.

A chagrined and indignant François reined to a halt on some flat land before the piles of red snow. "I'll inspect the breadth and depth of the battlefield to find him."

"For King François!" Guise roared as he fired an arrow.

"Kill them all!" bellowed Montmorency.

François coveted to take his Habsburg rival prisoner. "Find Carlos!"

Two arrows lodged in the legs of Annebault, who slipped from his stallion. The king's men divided, riding in a circle to safeguard their liege lord and his injured advisor. Meanwhile, Guise's archers directed myriads of arrows at the fleeing foes, while the French cavalry reached the rearmost Imperial knights and slain many, chopping off limbs and scattering bodies left and right.

"To me!" the Duke of Alba shrieked in a voice colored with urgency and unutterable despair. "The emperor has been shot! For the love of Christ, take him to safety!"

At this, a dozen of the French cavalrymen, with François at their helm, dashed to Alba's soldiers, who were carrying the unconscious Habsburg monarch. As they neared the panicking Spanish, another shaft slammed into the emperor's chest. Being close to his rival again, François saw no blood because the arrows had penetrated Carlos' mail, but not the leather vest beneath.

"It is the emperor!" apprised Montmorency. "Do not let him escape!"

The small Imperial cortege urged their steeds into an insane gallop. Some of Alba's soldiers steered their beasts to the King of France and his guards so as to divert their attention, and by doing so, allow others to vanish into the safety of the woods. François came alongside a Spanish warrior, who hacked at him, but he parried before swinging backhanded and catching the man in the chin.

"After them! Now!" François blocked and spurred away, his horse knocking aside some of the enemy's mounts. "For France!" His knights hurried after him.

§§§

François urged his mount faster, but there were nonetheless too many men between him and the Habsburg monarch. As they dived into the forest, a group of Imperial warriors appeared from around the side of a road. François raised his shield just in time before a lance slammed into it, sending him flying down from his destrier and into the cold, yet soft, pile of snow.

The ruler clambered to his feet. "I wish all the Spaniards had been at the bottom of the sea!" He repeated Anne's infamous words about his enemy's nation.

The Imperial knights were gone, Emperor Carlos with them. Many French soldiers were pursuing them; others huddled nearby, awaiting the royal orders.

Montmorency, Guise, and Chabot brought their mounts to a halt.

"Your Majesty," said the Marshal of France cautiously, "there is no sense in trying to find the emperor now. It is nightfall, and we might get lost in the dark woods."

"Damn!" François peered at the road, shadowed by the snow-capped trees.

Montmorency worked to diffuse the tension. "We have won the Battle of Poitiers!"

Chabot intoned, "Our ancestors who died here have been avenged!"

The Marshal of France commended, "The soldiers of the great King François are far better trained and braver than those of King John II had once been. In spite of being your forefather, King John lacked military prowess, wisdom, and cunning, unlike Your Majesty."

However, their sovereign's mood was as gloomy as the blackest void in Tartarus. "John and I have something in common: we were both captured by invaders."

"Today, you avoided that," underscored Chabot.

"But Carlos fled," François rasped.

His subjects were all cognizant of their king's scorching disdain towards the emperor. Alarm crawled beneath their skin, like a worm through wet earth. They were a little terrified of the ruler's immeasurable animosity towards the Habsburgs, which had burrowed into François' very soul.

The distant roar of ordnance from the French camp heralded their victory in Poitiers. Now it was only a matter of weeks, perhaps days, before the invaders were ejected or destroyed.

It seemed a long time later when the drum of hoofbeats was heard.

The king's eyes flashed. "Maybe they have got him."

His friends prayed that the monarch would not rush into the darkened forest.

"There you are, Your Majesty!" The Italian accent was so thick that the words uttered in French were not easily comprehensible. "Congratulations on the demise of your foe!"

Ercole II d'Este, Duke of Ferrara, Modena, and Reggio, slid from the saddle and hugged the monarch. Clad in Spanish armor, he was a handsome young man, his dark hair tousled and his face unshaven because of his continuous martial exploits. His tall, well-proportioned figure was seen well as he parted from the embrace and then, for the better convenience in walking, divested himself of the mantle, embroidered with gold, which was slipped over his shoulders.

François was Ercole's father-in-law by the man's union with Renée of France, Queen Claude's younger sister and the king's niece through marriage. The Duke of Ferrara's loyalties had once fluctuated between the rulers of France and the Holy Roman Empire. Nevertheless, the Habsburg invasion of France had caused him to drift towards the allegiance to François, for Ercole had realized that one day, Carlos, who did not comply with treaties, could invade or annex his lands.

"My most inconstant spy!" François joked.

Ercole criticized in a jesting manner, "Don't be ungrateful, Your Majesty! I've aided you to win today's confrontation." His lips lengthened into a grin. "The emperor escaped, but he is injured. Yet, we have Ferdinand and also someone of importance to your new wife."

The ruler quizzed, "What do you mean?"

"This bonny lady," the other man answered. "And her children."

The Duke of Ferrara gestured towards the Lady Mary Stafford, who wore a warm cloak lined with rabbit skin. Everyone's astonishment bordered on incredulity as they eyed the King of France's ex-mistress, whom François had defamed as a whore years ago.

Her features as pale from the cold and worry as the finest alabaster, Mary sat on a horse nearby. Her children, Annie and Edward, were in the cart behind their mother's palfrey.

The monarch was shamefaced at the remembrance of the insults he had rewarded Mary with during the Field of Cloth of Gold of 1520 and later so long ago. The others stared at the infamous former mistress of two kings, as if they could see the touch of every man she had been with.

Anne de Montmorency and Mary Stafford avoided eye contact. When she had lived at the Valois court, he had taken her maidenhead before she caught François' eye, and it was their secret. The intersection of their gazes aroused in both of them a forbidden fluttering of memories of their encounters in the past. In youth, Mary had been flippant enough to have had several lovers.

The marshal's hardened warrior heart skipped a beat as his scrutiny focused upon Mary. She had aged well and had no wrinkles, and she could be considered a woman in her prime. Her cloak hugged her figure tightly, still slender and finely curved, despite her several pregnancies throughout Mary's two marriages. She was still quite a lovely woman, and he recalled that Anne Boleyn's elder sister had once been considered the grandest English rose at the Tudor court.

"Why are you here, Madame Stafford?" inquired King François, taking a step to her.

Masking her inner tumult, Mary responded in flawless French, "His Grace of Ferrara saved me from the Spanish camp, where I had spent the previous week." At the sight of his befuddlement, she elaborated, "My children and I were travelling from England to find my sister."

The king was shocked. "Didn't you know about the invasion?"

She blurted out, "I'm a widow! King Henry executed many rebels, my husband among them, and he would have murdered me if my uncle hadn't helped me to run away. I knew that France was a dangerous place now, but I had no choice. The weather was bad, so we found refuge in Normandy, where Imperial agents discovered and delivered us to the emperor in Poitou."

Ercole explained, "I took her with me during my own escape."

Mary wiped away tears with her palm. "I'm sorry for my lack of restraint."

François appeased, "That is all right. Now you are safe."

Once more, a tempest of sobs assailed Mary. Montmorency perused her, his mouth open, his chest tightening with atypical anguish. To him, this suffering creature was more beautiful than Anne Boleyn and even than the copy of the Madonna by Sandro Botticelli, which hung behind the altar of his private chapel in one of his estates. Meandering tears whitened paths down her cheeks as she wept anew, making her blue eyes almost as translucent as the clear seawater.

"Madame, time heals all wounds." The marshal's voice sounded hoarse.

Mary huffed in annoyance. "Monsieur, I heard that your wife is hale and hearty, giving you a babe almost every year. What do you know about bereavement?"

"I did not want to…" Montmorency fumbled for words, but found none.

Guise mocked, "All paths in France lead to the two Boleyn girls."

Montmorency growled, "You are a fool, Guise."

Philippe de Chabot, who despised both of the Boleyn sisters, intervened, "Sophocles said that silence gives the proper grace to women. I'm certain that Lady Stafford knows this."

The marshal glowered at Chabot. "Philippe, do not be rude."

François reprimanded, "Where are your gallant manners, Philippe?"

The Admiral de Brion held his ground firmly. "I've simply quoted Sophocles."

"Indeed." The Duke de Guise believed that Chabot ought to have concealed his scorn towards the queen's sister, just as he did. "But should a lady stay in the forest for so long?"

The king closed the topic. "Let's return to the camp and check on Annebault."

Soon the small party left the forest of Nouaillé behind. As they neared the camp, the cries of triumph were as loud as those of the god Mars, announcing another Roman conquest. Soon they were joined by the heavy beat of drums and the fanfares of trumpeters.

Exhausted and agitated, Mary observed the snowflakes churn up white waves in the air. As her consciousness swerved back to William Stafford's tragedy, tears suffused her eyes. She thought of Anne, while the horses and the cart slowly trudged along the snow-laden road. _Anne must crave revenge upon that Tudor monster. I'm burning with hatred for him! Together we shall become the unstoppable gale,_ Mary swore again as the cortege came to a standstill.

* * *

 _I hope you liked this chapter. I'm going through a difficult period in my life, so your reviews may brighten my day. Thank you very much in advance._

 _Many readers asked me when Mary Boleyn would be introduced. At last, she entered the stage under tragic circumstances. Mary's husband, William Stafford, participated in the Pilgrimage of Grace, which was squashed thanks to King Henry's crafty plan revealed to Mary by the Duke of Norfolk. The rebellion ended off stage, but you see that the king was as cruel to the insurgents and their unfortunate families as he was in history. Henry's conversation with Robert Aske is taken from the Tudors show's script._

 _I'm certain that you wonder why Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, is not as heartless as he is often portrayed in fiction. I've read about him a lot, and I'm not sure that he had a conscience, but I wanted to make him a better character in this work than he was in history. Besides, Princess Elizabeth will need him a lot, as well as Anne once King François launches his plan to prove her innocence. That is why he has some good moments while talking to Mary Boleyn._

 _Some reviewers complained that there was little action in the previous chapter. However, you need to understand that there are many characters in this AU. I'm striving to portray vivid pictures of François' relationships with his family members. But in this chapter, there is a great deal of action as the Battle of Poitiers results in the defeat of the Imperial forces. Hopefully, you like the scenes of war and the contest of Emperor Charles/Carlos and King François. The battle is portrayed in the similar way to the Battle of Poitiers of 1356 that occurred centuries earlier during the Hundred Years' War, but where the French were defeated._

 _Ercole II d'Este was Duke of Ferrara, Modena, and Reggio from 1534 to 1559. He was the eldest son of Alfonso I d'Este and Lucrezia Borgia, as well as husband of Renée of France. As you see, François had a spy in the Imperial camp, and Ercole aided him to win the battle of Poitiers._

 _I changed the name of Emperor Charles to Emperor Carlos in all the previous chapters and in later chapters. Let's use the Spanish version of his name. We have several Charles in this AU._

 _I shall respond to all reviews soon. Even if it takes me many days to respond, eventually I will._

 _Please let me know what you think in your reviews! Thank you very much in advance!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	17. Chapter 16: End of the Invasion

**Chapter 16: End of the Invasion**

 ** _April 5, 1537, the city of Bourges, Duchy of Berry, France_**

"Those Spanish demons are doomed," Anne de Montmorency effused.

"They will all be crushed," Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise. "Today!"

The high and thick walls of Bourges loomed in the distance, making both men feel somewhat insignificant. Today's battle would take place outside the city, so no Frenchman perceived this sight as something ominous. Although the invasion of France had been almost routed, King François had enjoined to send the Habsburg troops to the deepest pits of the netherworld.

Surrounded by a squad of knights, Montmorency and Guise stared at the field swarming with Imperial and French men-at-arms. It stretched ahead of them far south, where the sun began to flirt with the treetops, which stood defiant along the field's western edge. Commanded by Claude d'Annebault, an hour earlier, the French cavalry had advanced beyond the ravine in the rear of the Imperial troops. The moment of Montmorency's and Guise's glory was also approaching.

An enraged Montmorency gripped the reins. "Pity that Emperor Carlos fled."

"He is wounded and might not live for long." Guise's voice was muffled.

"I cannot wrap my head around how the emperor vanished as if into the thin air."

Guise shifted in the saddle nervously. "Well, he is a cunning man."

"Infantry! Attack!" Annebault's scream boomed in the background.

The Duke de Guise crossed himself and intoned, "The Almighty will protect us. He did not allow France to fall and will aid us to destroy the enemy here once and for all."

"God is with us," Montmorency agreed, also crossing himself.

At the same time, Philippe de Chabot ensured that the French bombardment had slowed the foe's retreat. As the boom of the last gun faded, silence laced with anticipation ensued.

"Ready, men!" Montmorency prepared his shield and sword.

"For France!" Guise barked his orders to his divisions of bowmen.

The rasp of thousands of swords being drawn resonated in the air. An onrushing horde of the French infantry swarmed the battlefield. Ten thousand strong, they let loose a blood-curdling collective scream, and their cry 'For France!' was soon joined by the loud beat of drums. Once more on French soil, it seemed as if the mouth of hell had opened up before the invaders, who were now screaming like fatally injured animals as the French butchered them.

The armies of the German Lutheran and Protestant princes went on the offensive, pressing the Italian soldiers under the command of Ferrante Gonzaga with a series of rampageous attacks. The Norwegian and Danish troops collided with the Swiss mercenaries, who were desperate to try and break through the thick lines of the advancing French infantry. The din of the battle was deafening, a mad blend of shouting, firing, and moaning as men fell on both sides.

Although the recent victory of the French in Poitiers ensured France's ultimate triumph, King François still needed the assistance of his Protestant allies to utterly destroy the adversary. Thus, it had been decided that the French and their allies would launch a coordinated attack on the rest of the Imperial forces, which still plundered the French territories in the Duchy of Berry. As many Swiss and Italian men also served the Habsburg monarchy, the mission of the Protestant allies was to confront them, while the bulk of the French divisions dealt with the Spaniards.

The Swiss mercenaries had the initial advantage after their first charge. They managed to damage the right wing of the German Lutheran princes commanded by Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse. When their charge was over, light Norwegian cavalry and Danish infantry counterattacked, and the Swiss heavy armor put them at a disadvantage to their adversary. In the center, the Italian troops failed to push back the Germans and were barely holding off the assault. In an hour, the Protestant allies inflicted disproportionately heavy losses on the Italians and Swiss parties.

Meanwhile, Anne de Montmorency galloped along the Yèvre River past the fields and orchards. He slowed as he caught up to the escaping Spanish cavalry, forcing them to engage his infantry. At the same time, the Duke de Guise ordered a deadly archery attack on the enemy. A horn sounded, and the French – both left and right wings – swooped down on the remainder of the Habsburg divisions, which under their onslaught turned to flee into the juxtaposed woods.

The Spanish, Italian, and Swiss survivors resisted with a desperation that indicated their intention to fight to the death. In spite of having been deprived of their two Habsburg leaders and disorganized due to their enemy's advantage in this battle, they preferred to die with honor rather than be captured. The French encircled their adversaries like a venomous serpent, and their swords started the fatal descent onto those whom they abhorred with every fibre of their beings.

The slaughter would have become absolutely brutal if King François had not appeared and roared, "Stop this madness! The Lord is gracious, slow to anger, and great in His mercy. He has saved our nation from the Spanish slavery! Be merciful, just as God has been to us!"

The ruler's sonorous voice carried across a sea of corpses and a mass of fighting men. As the slaughter ceased, François left the command to Montmorency. As though they had been satiated with blood, his generals no longer killed and commenced taking the survivors prisoner.

Anne de Montmorency and Claude de Guise observed François return to the camp.

"I admire our liege lord," Montmorency affirmed sincerely. "Intelligence, benevolence, honor, strength, and foolhardiness merge together in him in the finest combination."

Guise was not in accord. "It is a matter of politics. His Majesty's magnanimity is largely based on a just confidence in the truth of his cause to liberate France from the invaders."

"We have both known King François since boyhood. We met him at the court of the late Louis XI, when Madame Louise de Savoy took him there, and we have spent much time together since then. However, you do not appreciate François' chivalry and his high code of honor."

His disapproving glower discomfited Guise. "You are wrong, Monty. I've always been loyal to France. I admire our liege lord's bravery and chivalry."

Montmorency was deeply devoted to his sovereign. "François de Valois is called the Knight-King not without a reason. This recognition for his chivalry is perhaps the best legacy he can bequeath his progeny, something they will someday look back on and be proud of. As Sophocles said, a man of honor would prefer to fail with honor than win by cheating, and this is applicable to our liege lord. King François' name will dazzle future generations."

Guise flung back, "But where did it lead him at Pavia?"

"I know what you are implying, Claude. But His Majesty and I are cut from the same cloth: we keep our word and honor commitments, which will also honor the nation."

"It is illusion, Monty! The king and you are both dreamers!"

Montmorency spotted the tattered Habsburg standard on the ground. "I do hate that dratted thing." He maneuvered to another topic because he did not want to argue.

"I hate everything Spanish," spat Claude de Guise. "And everything Protestant."

"Do you mean our queen?" Montmorency quizzed.

Guise's mouth twisted into a snarl. "I'm a man of _royal_ blood, one who _has not abjured the true faith_. The Guises are descendants of the Capetian House of Anjou, and I'm almost a prince of the blood. Unlike you, I cannot accept that heretical whore on the throne."

"Be careful, Claude. King François should not hear such things."

The Marshal of France spurred into a gallop and sped past Duke de Guise's brothers. He did not need to stay here to know the outcome of the battle: France and her international allies had again won today, and the Battle of Bourges would be the final one in this Franco-Imperial war.

§§§

The day had come and gone. Now nightfall was at hand, and the sky was a full, dark blue with the first stars emerging, whose brilliance signified the end of the invasion.

 _Guise loathes Queen Anne,_ Montmorency mused. _Is he plotting against her?_ It surprised him that he referred to her as queen without a pang of revulsion. He was not entirely comfortable with the idea of having Anne Boleyn as his sovereign's wife, but they could not change anything. From the beginning, he understood the necessity of François' marriage to her, for France would not have triumphed over the Holy Roman Empire without the anti-Habsburg coalition. Moreover, Montmorency was grateful to Anne for rescuing his liege lord in Chamerolles.

Their short exchange irked, mystified, and worried Montmorency. There was discontent among some fanatically zealous French Catholics, who did not support France's policy of religious tolerance. King François' marriage to Anne had driven a wedge further between these nobles and the House of Valois, and Duke de Guise could be one of them. Guise's mention of his being of royal blood alerted Montmorency to a possible conspiracy perhaps against not only Anne, but also François. To focus on the battle, the marshal pushed his thoughts from that venue.

Vigilant, Montmorency kept glancing around, slowly steering his destrier in the direction of the French camp. The knights, bearing Valois blue and golden standard, were marching across the battlefield, their boots squishing in the blood-drenched earth. The distant horns of the scattered Imperial army heralded their continuing escape, which was followed by the cries and drums of the pursuing French. Eventually, the field fell silent, save the moans of the dying and wounded, and the soulless cries of the ravens, which were descending to feast upon the fallen.

"Thanks be to the Lord!" Montmorency crossed himself. "We are free."

Arriving at the camp, the Marshal of France dismounted. As he neared the royal tent, several nobles came out to meet him. They stepped away to reveal the Valois monarch encumbered in his extravagant armor, a fur-trimmed cloak of purple velvet thrown around his shoulders.

François bestowed an exuberant smile upon him. "Monty, I must express my thanks for your wise leadership of our troops and your invaluable friendship with the House of Valois. I've always offered you my love in return, and today I appoint you Constable of France."

Montmorency genuflected to his sovereign. "Your Majesty, I've always been and shall always be loyal to you. I shall gladly die for you! From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for the honors that you have conferred upon me, but they are not necessary. Everything I've done for you has been done with love for your gracious person and for our great country."

"I know," answered the ruler benignly. "But you deserve all the best."

"Thank you, my liege." The new Constable of France pulled himself to his feet.

Philippe de Chabot interjected, "I have news from King Henri of Navarre. Finally, he was able to expel the Spaniards from his kingdom. The invasion of Navarre is finally over."

François sighed with relief. "My brother-in-law has done a great job. He could not help us because he was obligated to save his own kingdom. Now it all is over!"

Chabot continued, "The siege of Genoa by the Ottoman fleet is finally over. The Genoese surrendered a couple of weeks ago, and now the Turks will have their fleet stationed in Italy. And Hayreddin Barbarossa is currently raiding Spanish ports."

This elicited from the congregation a gasp of incredulity and consternation.

"The Turks in _Italy_?" Philippe of Hesse rasped in thickly accented French.

"Those heathens!" The Norwegian and Danish commanders looked horrified.

"So dangerous." The ramifications of their unholy alliance frightened Montmorency.

The monarch was conflicted over his entanglement with the Turkish sultan. "I've always known about the peril of our alliance with the Ottoman Empire. But I needed to save my country! We will have to think carefully as to our actions." He then walked away.

Guise approached Montmorency from the back. He mocked, "Monty, now you are the First Officer of the Crown. But do not follow in the Constable de Bourbon's treacherous footsteps."

Montmorency glared at him. "Jealousy has warped your judgment, Claude." Turning his back on the duke, he strode away; a distinct sense of unease settling over him.

§§§

"I've won another deal!" cried Lady Mary Stafford as she opened her cards.

"Though not the game," Ercole d'Este, Duke of Ferrara, contradicted with a smile. "Lady Stafford, you spent your youth at the French court. Yet, I have to remind you that when one plays a piquet, a deal consists of three parties, and a game includes a set of six deals."

They lounged in matching chairs upholstered in an emerald velvet. An array of candles illuminated a spacious tent, furnished with silver brocade-covered couches and a large bed draped in yards of green silk. A thick wheat-colored carpet flowed throughout the area. Mary had never lived in a military camp before, so her tent's luxury surprised her a lot.

Mary and Ercole had befriended each other in the past few weeks. The French ruler had not let her travel to Villers-Cotterêts through the territories still occupied by the enemy. Ercole d'Este had been charged with the task to safeguard Mary as long as she remained with the royal troops. Ercole and Mary had frequently dined together in the privacy of her tent, as – for obvious reasons – she did not wish to mingle with the French nobles and councilors.

She made a face. "What a gallant attempt to teach a woman her proper place. You think that you cannot lose to someone who is inferior to you in some ways."

Ercole refuted, "You are mistaken, Madame Stafford. My brother-in-law, King François, reckons that women are like flowers who blossom in men's care and affection. To me, ladies are jewels created to do important things for a change." His voice tinged with tenderness, he asserted, "Just take my illustrious wife, Renée de Valois. She is a prime example of beauty, grace, and intelligence. I call her the greatest jewel of Ferrara and celebrate her uniqueness."

Embarrassment suffused her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, if I misjudged you."

The Duke of Ferrara laughed. "Women always challenge men!"

"They do." Her lips curved in a smile.

The game continued, and Ercole was dealt twelve cards. "Renée often challenges me, as if things could all be decided in our verbal contests. She teases me like no one ever dares, rolls her eyes at me, and fights for what she wants to do with the fierceness of a lioness."

Mary took her own twelve cards. "And you like it, don't you?"

"I do. My marriage will never be like a dull landscape of undulating hills."

Grinning, Ercole looked through his cards, grabbed the deck, and then fingered his way through it. They discarded a number of cards in turns and replaced them from the talon, declaring various features in the hand and then playing the cards in tricks. At the end of the partie, he burst out laughing, and Mary joined in his laughter as he had scored the highest number of points.

"I told you that I would win," he boasted.

"You must be the best gamester in Italy," she flattered him.

They put the cards on a table of polished oak positioned between their chairs.

As their gazes met, Mary did not miss the gleam of lust in his eyes, and her stomach recoiled. Evidently, the duke was exceedingly fond of his wife, the cultured Renée of France, but carnal pleasures were openly advocated at his court in Ferrara, and he himself kept several mistresses. In spite of her rather flippant past, Mary had matured into a dignified woman of refined taste and class, and now Ercole's philandering ways were taking a toll on her nerves.

"Your Grace has a lovely spouse in Italy," remarked Lady Stafford scornfully.

Ercole d'Este grinned conceitedly. "I do like women and instantly connect with them, just as your new brother-in-law does. I'm no different from him and any other man."

Mary grimaced, but she said nothing. Visions of her erstwhile liaison with the young King of France flashed through her mind like a leaf being carried on a hurricane. François had not been her first lover, but it was he who had taught her the art of physical love, having turned her from an inexperienced woman into someone fully aware of her body and all the pleasures it held. Whether their couplings had been short and frantic, or long and delicious, they would always end sated and content, and Mary had learned the secrets of her own femininity in his bed.

Eventually, the French ruler had discarded Mary and disparaged her as a whore, smashing her reputation into shreds. She had believed that François had been the love of her life, and the thought of never being in the cocoon of his masculinity again had been worse than the physical pain of torture. Later, after her return to England, Mary had set herself in King Henry's path on her father's orders, but ultimately, she had fallen in love with the English ruler and had birthed his daughter, Catherine. After Henry had dismissed her, just as François had done a few years earlier, Mary had suffered as if she had been crucified on the amorous altar of her womanhood.

Her first marriage to William Carey had never been a love match, and she had not cared that she had brought King Henry's bastard into the Carey family. At his liege lord's behest, Carey had accepted the girl as his own and give her his name and home. The king had provided for the girl well and granted his cuckolded subject several manors and estates in compensation for his spouse's unfaithfulness. Afterwards, Mary had endeavored to become a good wife to Carey in gratitude for his benevolence towards her, but he had not attracted her as a man in the slightest.

In two years after Catherine's birth, Mary had finally given Carey a son. The boy had been named Henry after the monarch, and for a short time, she had found contentment. However, Carey had later set up celibacy as the highest ideal for their union that had been besmirched by Mary's infidelity. In the insistent tones, he had proclaimed the permanent abstinence a paragon of marital happiness in place of the narrower human love of home and children. For the rest of his life, Carey had lived like saints, sages, reformers, and dogmatists, who modelled their lives on this ideal.

 _Men such as William Carey are out of the main human current_ , Mary mused dolefully. _They are branches which may flourish only for hours, but never fruit in a bodily form._ She had sought solace in more affairs and been ensconced in the arms of several English courtiers, just as she had once been drowning in the amatory ocean at the Valois court. After Carey had died of the sweating sickness in 1528, the widowed Mary had changed several more lovers within a span of several years, some of whom had abandoned her, and each time it had hurt her like a burning.

The eldest Boleyn girl had not felt the blessedness of pure and unconditional love until her meeting with Sir William Stafford of Chebsey. He had been one of those who had accompanied King Henry and Anne to Calais for the meeting with King François in October 1532. A commoner by birth, Stafford had served as a soldier, and been the last person on her mind. In addition, Mary had been convinced that no matrimony could be happy, so she had not wished to marry again.

A lump rose in her throat, and she warded off the urge to weep. _William, when I first saw you, I could not know that I would love you so much._ Images of their first meeting swirled in her mind. Mary had first seen Stafford among the arquebusiers who had been stationed on the towers and walls at the castle where Anne and Henry had resided in Calais. Staggered by a sharp lance of hunger, they had surrendered to their passions in the darkness of that French autumn. That night, their wanting had been huge, recklessly primitive, and she had conceived his child.

After learning about her condition, Mary and William Stafford had wed in secret. In the aftermath, her father, Sir Thomas Boleyn, had expelled her from the family and disinherited her. The old Boleyn had also compelled Anne to banish Mary from court for marrying a man far below her station. A bold, principled woman despite her all her gentleness, Mary had not begged her relatives for aid, and she had relocated with William to Essex, where he had owned a farm.

 _I loved you wholeheartedly, Will,_ Mary bemoaned silently. _We were so happy together, but you left me and our children alone in this cruel world. Why did you need to join the rebels, despite all my pleas?_ Although William Stafford had been a Catholic, he had despised the corruption of the Vatican and prelates, so he had supported the Church reforms in England. Nevertheless, he could not bear the ruthlessness with which Thomas Cromwell had implemented the dissolution of the monastic houses. Driven by a desire to protect religious shrines and abbeys from destruction, Mary's second husband had joined the insurgents and become one of their leaders.

She envisaged their last meeting as an elated Stafford had hugged her and assured that the King of England would fulfill all of his promises. With these memories came the plangent rhythm of her grief over Stafford's death, which rankled her heart like a needle piercing the flesh. _William is dead,_ her inner voice repeated over and over again. _Learn to live without him_. And, suddenly, his image faded like mist as she pushed memories back into dark recesses.

Breaking out of her reverie, Mary ruminated, "Marriage is far less delightful than it appears at first glance. Too many wed expecting joy, only to be disappointed later. As their desire for freedom grows, men stray from their wives. They refuse to admit that their own behavior is more likely to have been the origin of their personal misery than the marriage-bond."

Ercole assured, "It is not my case. I'm not unhappy with Renée."

"Yet, it is apparent that Your Grace has extramarital relationships."

"That is true." He had the decency to blush.

In the voice of a sage woman who had experienced true family happiness, Mary pontificated, "Every heart desires a soulmate. Nature has so created us that we are incomplete in ourselves. However, it is never easy to make matrimony a lovely thing. If spouses become happy, it is an achievement beyond the powers of the selfish or the cowardly." Her lips twisted into a grimace of abhorrence. "Men like Henry of England are incapable of making a woman happy."

The Duke of Ferrara tipped his head. "The King of England must be the worst kind of a tyrant. I'm sorry for what he did to your sister and you, Madame Stafford."

Her fists clenched under the table as seething rage gushed through every pore of her being. "He killed my husband. He murdered my brother, George, and almost destroyed Anne."

"Try to forget it," Ercole advised in a voice layered with sympathy. "Soon you will see your sister, Queen Anne. The two of you will be each other's consolation."

Mary laughed with an odd mixture of amusement and admiration. "My sister is the Queen of France. I could never have imagined that she was destined to always be royalty."

Ferrara laughed back. "She is the wife of the magnificent King François! It is such a rare situation to become a queen _twice_! And it is a great honor for her."

"Anne is capable of achieving incredible things," she lauded.

He poured out a drink for them and handed a goblet to her, then sipped from his own cup. "Like your sister, I played a role in the liberation of France, and I'm proud of it."

Mary welcomed the change of subject. "Have you been François' spy all along?"

"Yes," collaborated Ercole, enjoying his wine. "I gathered many bits of intelligence about the emperor's martial stratagems. I've long realized that only a fool can trust that man who does not honor alliances and his own word. I contacted King François soon after that Habsburg rat had summoned me to serve him in France together with my five thousand men."

This was the most curious circumstance, Mary silently commented, especially in view of the King of France's penchant for intrigue, which she had not seen in her former lover years ago. Her life in France would be a never-ending journey of discoveries, and of growing, evolving, and refining who she was as a person. As her mind drifted to Anne de Montmorency, she wondered whether his old impressions of her had been effaced, altered, softened, or weakened.

§§§

Mary Stafford made her way to the King of France's tent. Above her the night sky looked like a curving bowl of black liquid. Near the royal tent, sentries dropped into bows to her.

"I request an audience with His Majesty," Mary demanded.

"The king is resting," one of the guards answered.

"I must see him," she reiterated, albeit a bit harshly.

They were afraid of Mary, for she was the sister of the formidable Queen Anne, and none of them wanted to make an enemy out of their new queen. At last, Anne's sister entered.

As the tent's flap opened from the opposite side, King François walked in. He had been in the adjacent part of his quarters, which served as his bedchamber. His rumpled doublet of blue brocade, bedecked with pearls, was hastily thrown on, indicating the quickness of his coming.

He froze as his eyes locked with Mary's, curiosity written all over his countenance.

"Good evening." Mary's expression was absent-minded.

"It is well past midnight," François noted. "Perhaps good morning?"

Visions of their affair floated in their mind's eye. Their dance at a banquet at Château de Blois. His numerous expensive gifts for her. The lovely, romantic poems he had penned for her to dramatize his attraction to her. Their first night of passion on an enormous bed under a canopy of cloth of gold, when François had carried the young Mary to the acme of carnal euphoria.

Her pulse was a wild thrumming of sensuality that had once given her heavenly pleasure. With a perturbed stare, she glanced around to calm down. A handsome man with a bewitching physique, François frequently had such an overwhelming effect on female senses.

"Are you all right, Madame Stafford?" His voice was edged with worry.

This snapped Mary out of her trance. "Of course, I'm fine."

François stepped to her, then halted. "Your tone sounds quite rude, as if I had displeased you. What have I done to make you ill-disposed towards me?"

Her cheeks flushed. "Nothing, sire. I apologize."

He studied her closely. "How can I help you?"

For a moment, Mary dithered. "Your Majesty, I've come to plead with you to allow me to depart from Bourges tomorrow at first light with my children."

The king figured out the reason, but he said, "Why? I hope the Duke of Ferrara has not offended you. I required him to grant you all the courtesies due to a lady of superior station."

"No, he has not. His Grace has been a wonderful friend to me."

"Is it about Anne?" He eased himself into an armchair with intricately carved salamanders.

Mary flashed a blithesome smile of her longing for Anne. "Yes, sire. It has been several weeks since my arrival in France, and I've had many misadventures here. I had both gladsome and dreadful days in England, but as of late, my existence has been filled with tragedies, ironies, and pettiness. I'd like to be reunited with my sister because only she can help me heal."

"As romantic as always," he voiced his thoughts, which were now on their affair.

She repressed her frustrated ire. "Forgive me, sire, but I'll not discuss anything from the past. It must be your intention to provoke me, or make a fool out of me."

"Why do you think so?" Her outburst puzzled him. "Take a seat, Madame."

Ignoring his invitation, her lips produced the tirade borne out of her still existing umbrage at his mistreatment of her. "It is spectacular that now Your Majesty is polite with the very woman whom you once defamed as _'the English mare he rides so often'_ in a casual conversation with your fellow English monarch. I can recall your other disparagements of me, each of them more poetic than those verses you wrote to seduce me." Pausing for a fraction of a second, she spewed, "I'm _'the great whore, infamous above all'_ , and I do not deserve your courtesy."

There was a long, enigmatic silence full of unspoken meaning.

Maybe for the first time in his life, the Valois monarch felt so utterly embarrassed in the presence of a woman that he did not know what to say. He recollected that drunken discourse between two equally inebriated royal rogues on a banquet during the Cloth of Gold in Calais years ago, and his vulgar words resounded in his ears: _"La grande pute, infâme avant tout"._ A wave of hot shame rolled over him again, adding to the nervous tension gathering inside him.

During this pause, Mary inwardly cursed her forthright manner. "I beg your pardon."

With an air of his celebrated courtesy about him, François articulated, "It is I who must be sorry. I was too young and impulsive at the time. I did not treat you well."

His sincerity startled her. "You do not have to apologize, sire."

"On the contrary, Madame. I owe you this apology."

"Thank you." A smile broke over her face like the sunrise.

The ruler switched to the topic at hand. "I cannot allow you to leave my camp. Several weeks ago, you tried to reach Villers-Cotterêts, but you were intercepted by Imperial agents in Normandy. We are fortunate that His Grace of Ferrara rescued you. Bands of Imperial deserters might still roam over France, raiding towns and villages for shelter, booty, food, and horses. Now I'm responsible for you and your offspring, so I must keep you safe."

"Your Majesty, please!" Mary entreated. "I'm dreaming of seeing my sister! If you give me enough guards, and if I travel in disguise, no one will comprehend who I am."

"No." There was a ring of finality in his tone. "You will have to wait."

"But…" Her impatience was overriding her politeness.

He smiled conspiratorially. "Both Boleyn girls are too audacious."

Blush inundated her cheeks. "Sire, your compliments are… embarrassing."

A boisterous laughter spilled out of François. "My dearest sister-in-law, you are no longer in England! Have you forgotten the essence of France? Here beauty of life, court splendor, refined manners, majestic culture, and unparalleled enlightenment blend into the finest reality."

His merriment transmitted to her. " _Qui vivra verra!_ "

"Most definitely, Madame Stafford."

As she still stood in the center, François stood up and towered over her like a giant. Mary and Anne were both tall, but the King of France's height had long become stuff for legends.

"Who is my sister faring?"

A certain amount of honesty was necessary, so he admitted, "You see I do not consider your sister my enemy, but she does. Life can turn what is good into bad."

"What?" Mary's eyes widened. "Anne has always liked Your Majesty."

Seizing the opportunity, the monarch enlightened, "That is exactly the case, Madame Stafford. When Anne came to me after her banishment from England, she called me one of her very few friends in her stormy life. I believed that we would have a good marriage before Anne has almost declared me her adversary, someone she cannot even bear to look at."

Mary was clearly taken aback. "But you helped Anne!"

A sliver of melancholy painted his features. "That is true. I'm perfectly aware why Anne behaves so: Henry's cruelty traumatized her profoundly. At present, she hates the idea of marriage and men in general. Nonetheless, she has forgotten that I am not a servant boy who must run errands for her. I'm the King of France, and I shall not waste my time on a woman who does everything in her power to demonstrate how much she loathes me and all men."

Her mouth tightened at the unwelcome tidings. "Anne must leave the past behind."

King François bared his mind to his sister-in-law. "Although Anne and I wed for political reasons, I still think we can become good friends. At least for the sake of our unborn child. If she takes _one step to me_ , I shall take _two to her_ , and perhaps we will have a normal life, then."

"She must." She resolved to talk sense into her stubborn sister.

His brows arched. "That she should do. But would she?"

Mary left the royal tent in a better mood than she had been in for quite a while.

§§§

Lady Stafford stopped near the entrance to her tent. The sentinels bowed, but she did not pay any heed to them. She gazed up, and the night firmament seemed a great cosmic book, which fulfilled a need for her soul – to dream about a better future in France.

"Not sleeping so late, Madame?" a quiet male voice spoke.

She turned to the intruder. "What are you doing here, Monsieur Constable?"

Her harshness slashed through Anne de Montmorency like an unspeakable twinge of hurt. Questions circled his mind. Did Mary not want to see him at all? Did she feel aversion towards him, just as she seemingly experienced it towards some of those Frenchmen who were present at the camp and dared discuss her lustful nature behind her back? Montmorency despised them.

 _I crave to hear Mary's voice,_ Montmorency acknowledged to himself. _But it should be musical and gentle, not severe or laced with anguish._ A series of remembrances flashed through his brain, of the storytelling clandestine afternoons when he had told the young Mary Boleyn about France and his adventures in Marignano, of notes exchanged, of secrets whispered and silent, and of the night when he had taken Mary's maidenhood after a splendid masque at Château de Cognac.

He imagined that he saw a hint of condemnation in Mary's cerulean eyes. Montmorency would not say that aloud, but he still blamed himself for having terminated their relationship years ago so that King François could enjoy her youthful body. His sovereign had wanted to bed Mary, and the loyal Montmorency could not stand in his way. When she had later fallen for François, Montmorency had been hurt beyond measure. Neither Montmorency nor Mary had ever loved each other, but something had linked them like a chain wrapped around them with artifice.

There had been a time when Montmorency had yearned for a sense of union with her soul. However, many years had passed, and the winds of time had eroded the emotional details of their rendezvouses through the inconstancy of the human universe. Unlike his liege lord, Montmorency did not possess a lascivious temperament: he was a man of war and blood, one for whom warfare always came before his quiet family life with Madeleine de Savoy. Yet, his meeting with Mary Stafford had a strange impact on him, acting on his senses as both a tonic and a poison.

"I was passing by," Montmorency lied. He had come to see her.

Mary shifted her gaze to the sky. "The dark heavens are like a cavernous cathedral, where dim light penetrates through strained-glass windows. I cannot help but think of my husband."

"I wish you had not suffered so much." His voice was poignant.

As their gazes met again, an outpouring of grief and relief flowed through Mary's heart, like water gushing from a spring stream. She did not comprehend the roots of her feelings. She should not stare into his eyes as if they could give her a repose. She had to gather her wits, to face her situation, and to go forward to accomplish something what would make her whole again.

Mary promptly answered, "Thank you, Monsieur Constable; good night."

After shooting a dispassionate look at his unrevealing features, she dropped a quick curtsy and hastened into her tent. She did not hear Montmorency sigh at her departure.

In the next moment, Ercole d'Este appeared beside Anne de Montmorency.

"You seem to be interested in her," the Duke of Ferrara commented.

Montmorency snorted. "Do not pry into my life, Your Grace."

Stepping to him, Ercole patted the other man's shoulder. "Any man, even Monsieur de Montmorency for whom fighting is the pre-eminent purpose of his entire life, needs a woman's tenderness. When did you pick up flowers of delight with Madame Stafford? Years ago?!"

Montmorency took a step back. "That is none of your business," he barked, trying to sound as the roughest and toughest general could speak to his sergeant. "Go back to Ferrara and speak to your courtiers in this manner. Give my warmest compliments to Madame Renée."

The duke saluted to him. "Thank you for your kind wishes! But the truth is obvious. And, yes, I'll gladly return home from the battlefield." He walked away, laughing.

"Damn him!" Montmorency hoped that Ercole would not gossip.

§§§

The following day, Montmorency sighed with relief as the Duke of Ferrara departed to his homeland after having an audience with the King of France, who invited Ercole to visit the Valois court together with Renée de Valois. Mary Stafford avoided the Constable of France as if he had some contagious disease – he found her behavior rational, but it saddened him.

"I want to see my wife and children," Montmorency told himself as he watched the d'Este knights ride away. Yet, the remembrances of his family were interrupted by a string of memories of his affair with Mary Stafford, as if her image had been burned into his brain like a brand.

* * *

 ** _April 15, 1537, Rue du Four, Paris, France_**

The rising sun painted the firmament pink and orange. At such an early hour, the streets were empty, and the silence was so complete that Dauphine Catherine de' Medici had the illusion the Parisians were far away. Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli waited for her nearby.

"I shall be back soon," Catherine told them in Italian. She felt uncomfortable in a shabby old cloak of black satin with a hood and leather boots, which she wore for disguise.

The dauphine entered a two-storied house made of gray stone and a tin roof now brown with years of rust. It was the residence of her Florentin astrologers – Cosimo and Lorenzo Ruggieri. Having feigned her sickness, Catherine had secluded herself in her bedchamber and surreptitiously left the court that still resided in Villers-Cotterêts. She would have to go back as soon as possible, although her two most loyal ladies-in-waiting would conceal her absence well.

After ascending the stairs, Catherine walked into the chamber where the brothers Ruggieri conducted magical experiments. Wrinkling her nose due to the sickeningly sweet smell, she swept her gaze over the room furnished with three chairs and tables, all of which were overloaded with bottles, cups, powders, charts, and bowls, as well as skeletons of animals and people.

Cosimo and Lorenzo stood in a stream of light filtering through the shutters. The dauphine looked at them, and a smile flickered across her countenance as she noticed bottles with the blue powder and the black liquid on a nearby table. These were fresh love potions for her husband, Dauphin Henri, and herbs to increase fertility; she had arrived in Paris to collect them.

The astrologers swept bows and greeted in Italian, "Madame Dauphine."

"Cosimo and Lorenzo," Catherine commenced in the same language. In mock irritation, she uttered, "You have become as pompous and haughty as sycophants at the royal court."

"We want to please you," Cosimo acknowledged.

Lorenzo redirected the discourse. "Your Highness, do you have good news?"

Irritated, she paced back and forth. "My life is darker than a moonless night! My husband is bewitched by his whore. Imagine my humiliation: Henri performs his conjugal duty to me only with her permission, very rarely. I am not pregnant, despite all your herbs and potions."

Cosimo assured, "Your Highness will get pregnant if you continue taking our herbs."

Catherine stopped near the table with frightening skeletons. "Are your potions effective?" Her eyes narrowed like a cat's. "If you are lying to me, you will both die agonizing deaths."

There was not a shadow of fear on the astrologers' faces.

"Our potions work well," Lorenzo responded evenly. "When we first met in Florence, we pledged our allegiance to Your Highness. We have never betrayed you."

Cosimo picked up a bottle with amorous powder. "If you continue putting potions in your spouse's food or drink, the change of sentiment within him will eventually happen." After a pause, he broached an issue. "Your Highness, I beg your pardon, but it seems that you cannot conceive while taking the herbs due to the infrequency of your encounters with the dauphin."

Her anger deflated, leaving behind the grief that she could not get what her heart most desired – Henri's love. "You are right. I'll have to do something about it."

Lorenzo rejoined, "You need to consume them twice every day."

"I remember." The dauphine inquired, "Have you analyzed my horoscope?"

Cosimo tipped his head. "Yes."

Then his brother declared, "We looked at your horoscope for _the next ten years_ , and I'm sorry to inform you about the troubles which will beset you in the future. You have a new powerful enemy, and your spouse's mistress should be the least of your concerns."

"Who is it?" she asked impatiently.

"The Queen of France," Cosimo emphasized.

Lorenzo crossed to one of the tables. He grabbed a chart, where strange lines were drawn, and showed it to their guest. "According to the dauphin's horoscope, he might _lose his place in French history_ , and this may be caused by the queen. Your life is _longer_ than his."

Catherine's heart pulsated with fear and ire. "How can I prevent that?"

Cosimo shook his head. "To be honest, we need to think about this. The stars revealed that Queen Anne of France has a unique life. Her horoscope is somewhat similar to that of Eleanor of Aquitaine because they both married two monarchs. Despite her English birth and her previous marriage, Queen Anne has found her destiny in France, just as Virgil's Aeneas did in Rome."

She slumped into a chair and let out a deep sigh. "Like Virgil's Aeneas?" Her eyes widened in horror. "That Trojan hero journeyed to Italy and eventually became the ancestor of the Romans. Do you mean that that Boleyn harlot may become the founder of a new dynasty?"

Lorenzo asserted, "Your Highness, horoscopes speak about _possibilities_. Besides, the chart of the queen's life displays _two dark streaks_ among the white canvas that symbolizes her victories. One of them illustrates her sufferings in England, the other – her woes in France."

A malignant grin spread across the dauphine's features. "So, the slut can be imprisoned by her own husband, just as Eleanor of Aquitaine was after her uprising?"

Lorenzo said, "Queen Anne will be beleaguered by threats, but not jailed."

"Yes," she agreed. "She is not a fool to rebel against King François."

Lorenzo added, "The queen will possess the king's heart soon."

Catherine raised her hands in frustration. "Will she give him a son?"

Cosimo nodded. "They will have _several_ children."

"Can I get rid of her?" It was natural for her to dispose of those who stood in her way.

Cosimo shook his head. "Your Highness, it is not the time to work against your foes, Queen Anne in particular. Our charts predict that if you bring her to ruin, you will perish as well."

There was a lurid light in her eyes. "Should we rid of the king, then? Poisoned perfumes or gloves? There are also books: just turn a page, and the poison enters through the skin."

Cosimo warned, "Your Highness, if you destroy His Majesty, it might be the end not only of you, but also of your husband and the Medici family. Do not act on impulse."

"I thought you would aid me," snapped Catherine.

"We will serve you for the rest of our lives," Cosimo vowed. "But we must be cautious, especially taking into account what we did to Dauphin François a year earlier."

The astrologers' pallor attested to their fear at the memory of their crime. Not long ago, they had shuddered in indescribable agonies of terror until the end of the court's mourning for the late dauphin. They did not want to be again involved in Catherine's lethal intrigues.

Lorenzo was the first to find his voice. "The Italians are not loved in France, and if someone unveils our secret–" He broke off and emitted a sigh. "If you want to protect Dauphin Henri's interests, take these herbs and ally with Madame de Poitiers so that the dauphin begins to perform his marital duties regularly. Tell your husband not to quarrel with King François."

Catherine nodded her concurrence. "You are of course right."

Cosimo took three bottles and crossed to their mistress. Bowing to her, he handed them to her. "They are ready. If you need more, send us a letter."

She smiled. "Thank you. However, I must know when I'll have a child."

"We cannot see that now," replied Lorenzo. "We will look at the magical charts later."

Catherine stood up. "See you soon."

As she swung around and stalked to the door, Cosimo's voice halted her.

"Everything will be crimson. Blood will gush like liquid fire. Nevertheless, there is strength in blood, and it does not always mean death. A new sun will rise, and shadows will fade."

His words reverberated through the dauphine's bones, pouring out from her mouth. "Blood will gush like liquid fire… Isn't it the blood of the French spilled during the invasion?"

"No," Lorenzo put in. "New wars will unfold in France, but not now. Years later."

Confused, she demanded, "Who is this new sun?"

Lorenzo uttered, "We do not know everything, Your Highness, and we apologize. When we are in a state of hypnotic trance, we have visions, but most of them are unclear."

Frowning at them from the doorway, she commanded, "Study the charts again."

Their enigmatic words buzzing in her mind, Catherine skittered out of the room and house.

Outside, unable to wipe the grin off his face, Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli cried, "Our dearest Highness!" At the sight of her gloomy expression, he quizzed, "What has happened?"

The dauphine managed a smile. "Aside from an occasional unexplained attack of nerves, things could not have been better. We just need to be more careful than ever before."

"How can I assist you?" Montecuccoli asked.

"I'm in need of temporary shelter where I can rest, Montecuccoli."

"My mansion in Paris is at your disposal."

Catherine pulled a hood onto her head. "Where are our horses?"

"This way, Your Highness." Montecuccoli extended his hand to the right.

They dived into a narrow lane, where two stallions were tied to a tree. As they rode into the bowels of the city, the odors and sounds assaulted their senses. The streets, riddled with houses and trash, merged with the stench of urine, so they battled against nausea.

Catherine's mind was preoccupied with thoughts. The astrologers' predictions were as misty as a feverish dream. She believed her astrologers, even though she could not interpret all of their words correctly. Her life was that of someone fumbling for support in the darkness, but she hoped that one day, beams of light would stab through the canopy of her matrimonial sorrows.

 _Everything will be crimson. Blood will gush like liquid fire. Nevertheless, there is strength in blood, and it does not always mean death. A new sun will rise, and shadows will fade._

This speech terrified Catherine like evil beasts. _Will there be another Habsburg invasion? Or will there be other conflicts in France? Is my Henri the new sun that will shine brightly after François' demise?_ To her frustration, there were no answers to these questions. So far, she would continue being a shy and pious girl, deprived of her spouse's love and trying to please the Valois ruler. Nonetheless, Catherine was a Medici in her heart, and her dreams were shaped like a queen from a chess set. One day, she would become Queen of France because it was her destiny.

* * *

 _I hope you liked this chapter. I hope you will let me know what you think of this chapter. Thank you very much in advance._

 _The Imperial invasion of France is finally over. King François and his troops won three battles: the Battles of Chamerolles, of Poitiers, and of Bourges. Before the French lost thousands of soldiers in the Battles of Arles and of Tours when the emperor's troops crushed the enemy. The House of Valois won the confrontation with the House of Habsburg, but it does not mean that the Habsburgs will never turn the tables on the Valois family. I did not plan to have Emperor Charles/Carlos captured, for I believe that it is enough François has Ferdinand, the emperor's younger brother._

 _Mary Boleyn remains in the French camp because it is dangerous to travel to the French court now. Some reviewers asked whether there will be more insight into Mary's life, and I hope that you like Mary's personal story that is given in her memories of her first marriage to William Carey and her second marriage to William Stafford. Some historians and fans think that both of Mary's children with Carey were fathered by Henry VIII, but it cannot be proved. In this AU, Henry's affairs with Mary resulted in her eldest daughter – Catherine Carey, who will become an important character in later chapters (between chapter 40 and 50). We do not know whether Mary loved her first husband or not, but in my opinion, she tried to be a good wife to him, but she never loved him. The story of Mary's meeting and life with William Stafford is based on historical research, but in fact, many moments are so vague that it left me a great room for fantasy and my own interpretation._

 _I hope you like Mary's conversation with King François. They kind of reconciled, and she is surprised that the monarch is sorry for his mistreatment of her years ago. Her short liaison with Anne de Montmorency had happened before she caught the king's eye. You will learn more about them in later chapters, and maybe Montmorency will become her friend or even someone dear to her._ _Ercole II d'Este and his wife, Renée of France, will appear once the action takes place in Italy._

 _"Qui vivra verra!" is a widely used and understood proverb that literally means, "He/she who lives, shall see."_

 _Catherine de' Medici visits her Italian astrologers – Cosimo and Lorenzo Ruggieri. According to my research, they lived on Rue du Four in Paris. You wonder what their prophesies about blood and death mean. "Everything will be crimson. Blood will gush like liquid fire" – this refers to future religious wars in France, but they will happen far later. "A new sun will rise" – you will be surprised with what I am planning, and I wonder what comes to your mind._

 _I have a poll about Mary Boleyn's future life in France. Please answer to the poll on my profile._

 _Yours sincerely,_  
 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	18. Chapter 17: The Queen's Disaster

**Part Two**

 **Lethal Struggles (1537-1541)**

 **Chapter 17: The Queen's Disaster**

 ** _May 15, 1537, Eltham Palace, Greenwich, Kent, England_**

The first fingers of dawn painted swirls of violet across the surface of the River Thames. Two months ago, the Tudor court had arrived at Eltham Palace by water. King Henry desired to reside at this memory-filled place, where he and his siblings, save Prince Arthur Tudor, had spent many blithesome days in childhood, blossoming in the care of their mother, Elizabeth of York.

"The queen has miscarried," Doctor Butts informed in a voice layered with compassion and sadness. "The child has the appearance of a male about four months in gestation."

The pinkish-gold hues of the light, streaming into the royal apartments through the windows, were incongruent with the blackest mood that reigned supreme inside. An ill-omened stillness percolated the walls, tapestried with biblical scenes and covered with creamy brocade, so full of all-encompassing consternation that everyone could almost taste and sense it.

Lady Dorothy Smith, Lady Elizabeth Cromwell, and Lady Jane Boleyn née Parker were all as silent and gloomy as the bleakest stars. They all comprehended that something sinister might happen as soon as the tidings of the queen's disaster circulated and reached the king's ears.

Queen Jane Seymour rested in an enormous walnut bed, canopied with masses of gorgeous immaculate white velvet. These fell in sumptuous folds from somewhere near the ceiling, as if swaddling the bed in a cocoon of purity. The queen used the color white in her clothing and in her rooms to highlight the goodness of her character and the innocence of her mind, body, and soul. Nevertheless, the bloody spots on the floor reminded everyone of the recent calamity.

Elizabeth pointed at the bloodstains on the carpet. "Lady Rochford, clean the floor."

"Of course, Lady Cromwell," Jane Boleyn obeyed.

In the tormenting silence that followed, the Viscountess Rochford washed the floor and hurriedly left. She was grateful to Queen Jane for having accepted her into the queen's household, despite her disgrace after her husband George Boleyn's execution. However, she despised the overbearing Elizabeth Seymour, who was tremendously proud of her position as the principal royal lady-in-waiting, but whose domineering tendencies appalled each maid of honor.

Gathering her strength, Jane mumbled, "Maybe you are mistaken, Doctor Butts."

Doctor Butts released a sigh. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty. We could not stop the bleeding once it started. All that remains of the child that you were carrying will be buried soon."

Her hope against all odds was now extinguished. Although her eyes were shut, the queen felt as if everything and everyone were leering at her, waiting to assail her like a pouncing predator. As the full impact of bereavement hit her, Jane dissolved into uninhibited sobs.

A dejected Dorothy approached the bed and settled herself on the edge. Stroking her sister's hair, she coaxed, "My dearest Janie, please calm down. It is not the end of your life."

At the opposite end of the chamber, Doctor Butts shuffled his feet. His wrinkled face was impenetrable, but an occasional twitch of his lips revealed his inner tension. Educated at Gonville Hall in Cambridge, he served at court for more than twenty years, and he had already seen the chains of Catherine of Aragon's and Anne Boleyn's miscarriages. Now Jane Seymour was experiencing the same frustration, and he pitied all the women who struggled to give his sovereign a son.

Elizabeth came to the physician. "Is Jane capable of producing male progeny?"

Butts flinched at her chilly voice. "Her Majesty is still young. Even the healthiest women might experience miscarriage sometimes. It is an emotionally and physically draining thing, but it does not mean that a woman cannot conceive again and carry the baby to term."

Elizabeth noted, "But she will have a higher risk for another miscarriage."

"Yes," the physician agreed. "Her Majesty will have to be more careful next time."

"You are dismissed," Elizabeth barked. The physician was glad to vacate the room.

Meanwhile, Dorothy was laboring to assuage the distressed queen's anguish. A cavalcade of apprehensive thoughts sent a shower of sparks through Jane's brain, but out of them all, one burned fiercer: _I've failed Henry in the worst possible way. Now our love is in grave peril_.

The queen had found out that she had been pregnant after the rebels' executions. King Henry had flourished in selfish joy, but Jane had basked in his affection, although he hadn't abandoned his paramours. When their gazes had locked, she had stared at him affectionately, for she had dreamed of their happiness, yet weeping when he had kissed her and then gone to Anne Bassett or another lover, although Henry had vowed to love his wife forever after Jane had conceived.

Jane's tearful eyes dashed to a window. The charming gold in the firmament painted the mist in the gardens in ethereal pastel shades, but she cursed the serene beauty of this hour. She wished her husband to be with her as gentle as a nun's tenderness, but her failure would sow the seeds of animosity in the monarch's soul, just as it had happened to his feelings for the exiled harlot.

Dorothy whispered, "You will get pregnant again, Jane."

"God!" The queen's voice was barely audible.

"Five months earlier, I had a miscarriage, so I know what you are feeling now, but I'm going to try and give my husband again. God is testing us so that we can grow in our Christian faith."

"Henry…" Jane broke off as a series of stronger sobs tore their way through her trembling form, nearly squeezing the breath from her lungs. Gulping for air like fish out of water, she clung to Dorothy's hand, as if it were her lifeline. "The king… will blame me for the loss of his son."

"All will be fine, Janie," Dorothy soothed, but her voice lacked conviction.

Elizabeth emerged in front of the royal bed. "Jane, His Majesty will be both heartbroken and furious. He does crave a son far more than anything else, and he has waited for decades to get it."

Gradually, the queen's sobs receded until she only had an occasional hiccup. "I would have given anything for a healthy son. I prayed fervently for a male child."

Lady Cromwell poured salt onto Jane's wounds. "But your boy is dead, just as the male children of Queen Catherine and the Boleyn harlot. His Majesty married you because of his hope for a son, but now you are no better than your predecessors in his eyes."

Dorothy castigated, "Elizabeth! Do not be so pitiless!"

"I cannot," Elizabeth countered. "Now our family might lose power."

Dorothy sniffed. "You are disgusting!" Elizabeth did not react at all.

"It is not my fault," Jane choked out.

Elizabeth's fingers brushed her temples. "That is what the harlot told the king when she had her last miscarriage. Do you remember how he dodged that accusation?"

The queen was now shaking with the force of her fast-rising sobs, which echoed around the room ominously. They were the most gut-wrenching cries her sisters had ever heard.

They remembered Anne's exchange with the monarch after the abortion caused by Jane's escapades on the king's knees. This infamous episode had traveled through the length and breadth of the Tudor court. Now this recital thundered through the minds of these three women.

 _You have lost my boy. I cannot speak of it. The loss is too great. But I see now that God will not grant me any male children. When you are up, I'll speak with you._

The Seymour sisters considered these words distasteful, but they had nevertheless thought that Anne had merited the suffering for her viciousness. Now the ruler might hurl a similar draconic accusation at Jane, and tongues of mortal terror were licking their earthly forms like flames.

Jane was wringing her hands. "He will not be as inhuman to me as he was to the whore!"

Elizabeth caught sight of her sister's countenance imbued with bottomless grief. "You are naïve, Jane. This disaster has besmirched your purity in the king's eyes. Your abortion happened on the Feast of the Ascension of Christ, and he will interpret it as a bad omen."

Dorothy hugged the queen, who was now wracked by uncontrollable sobs. "The whore's last miscarriage occurred on the very day when Catherine of Aragon was interred."

"Jane is in a worse position. Today is Ascension Day!" Elizabeth then exited.

Dorothy was tireless in her efforts to console Jane, who was crying on her shoulder for a long time. At noon, the sun reached the peak of its strength, but the queen felt as if the awful abode of lost souls awaited her after death. Eventually, Jane's sobs subsided into the drug-induced darkness after Doctor Butts had concocted some mixture of herbs to stop her hysteria.

§§§

"Jane's womb is cursed!" the Tudor monarch shrilled like a fiddle string wound too tight. He grabbed a vase and hurled it at the Seymour brothers. "She has lost my son! My heir!"

"Forgive us, sire!" Edward and Thomas Seymour chorused as they ducked.

Taking another vase, Henry shouted, "She owes me my boy!"

After the queen's miscarriage a couple of hours earlier, the Tudor temper had transmuted itself into a gale of perilous exasperation. Ire and pain vying in him, Henry had razed his grand presence chamber to the ground. Now everything was a chaotic shambles of cups, decanters, plates, candles, candelabra, as well as books, ledgers, parchments, and chairs shattered into pieces.

"She promised me a son!" yelled the ruler. A moment later, the last whole chair in the room landed on top of the other broken ones. "I wed her because I need sons!"

Edward and Thomas were terrified, as if they were in the presence of one-eyed Cyclopes. At the other end of the room, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, was shuddering inwardly.

Henry ran to the chair he had thrown moments earlier. "A queen's duty is to provide an heir for her husband." He grabbed the chair and slammed it through a nearby window, breaking the glass in the process. "She has failed me, just as that Boleyn whore and Catherine did!"

The Queen of France was expected to give birth to her child soon. The three men were afraid even to imagine how volatile Henry would become if Anne had given her French husband a son.

"All my wives have betrayed me!" King Henry threw a multitude of parchments to the floor and trampled them with his feet. "At least, Jane has not slept with other men!"

 _Damn Jane's sick womb!_ Edward cursed silently. _How could she bring this disaster upon us? We might lose power and privileges, which His Majesty has granted us._ He observed the king's temper spike to a new magnitude as Henry rammed his fists into the wall. A power-hungry, down-to-earth, and crafty man, Edward took more joy from meetings of Privy Council and state affairs than any time spent with his wife and relatives. Yet, at this moment, fear clouded his mind.

Edward articulated, "My sister loves Your Majesty. She has always been yours."

The monarch swiveled to his brother-in-law. "Jesus ascended into heaven on the Feast of the Ascension. However, my son died on such a holy day. Does it tell you something, Hertford?"

A wave of panic rushed over the Seymours, the same tide of fright that occasionally hit them in the past several months, turning their limbs to jelly and their voices to feeble croaks. After Jane's marriage to the ruler, Edward had been elevated to Earl of Hertford, and had also become Warden of the Scottish Marches. Thomas Seymour had been created Baron Seymour of Sudeley. It seemed that now the royal favor they had enjoyed so far could evaporate like fog.

Henry came to them and spat, "Has Jane sinned, and the Lord has punished us by taking our son on this holy day? Was she a virgin when I bedded her on the wedding night?"

Edward's expression was impassive, unlike Thomas. Charles observed them from a distance.

"Your Majesty, I…." Thomas' words shuddered to a halt.

Edward garnered his courage. "My sister has never known carnally any man other than you, sire. She grew up at Wulfhall together with us and our other siblings. Our mother, Lady Margery, taught her that only her husband has the right to claim a woman's virtue as his."

Henry recalled, "She told me that her virtue was the most valuable thing for her."

Edward continued, "You must remember that Jane's virtue was carefully guarded during your courtship. We never left her alone with you, for neither our dearly departed father nor any of our relatives would have allowed her to have any affair, not even with a monarch."

The king dragged a tormenting breath. "I saw the bloodstained sheets on our first night. And yet…" His mind drifted to his first wife. "That Spanish woman lied to me about her virginity for years. God in His wrath punished her by taking away from us all of our children, except for Mary."

Charles Brandon cringed, for he respected the late Catherine of Aragon and considered her the true Queen of England. "Your Majesty, how is it related to Queen Jane?"

Their liege lord's roar cut like a whip. "The Almighty condemned Catherine to bareness for her lies. Now Jane has miscarried my son. What has she done that God punished her so?"

Suffolk strode to the monarch. "Miscarriages are common. My wife lost our child two months earlier." At his last words, his heart constricted in his chest. "The Lord will bless your marriage to Queen Jane with a robust Tudor prince in due time. We must all pray for this."

Thomas breathed out a sigh of relief. "The queen and Your Majesty are still young. You will have many children, both girls and boys, in years to come. Our mother is fertile: she gave birth to ten children, and most of them survived to adulthood. Jane must be fertile as well."

"I do not need girls!" Henry's voice echoed through the air, charged with his anger.

Propelled by insane rage, the King of England darted to a nearby wall hanging, depicting the painting _'The Deposition'_ by Raphael, where the well-dressed Mary Magdalene was clutching the hand of Christ's body as Jesus was carried to his tomb. With a howl of fury, the monarch ripped this tapestry from the wall and threw it to the floor, then stamped upon it with his feet.

"Catherine and Anne!" a belligent Henry hissed. "Arthur deflowered Catherine before I took her to bed! Anne had more than one hundred lovers! They were both whores, and neither of them regretted her transgressions. At least, Mary Magdalene was a repentant prostitute."

"Your Majesty, my sister was a maid," Edward reiterated.

The ruler flung back, "Jane must repent of the horrible sin she apparently committed, even if it was not some illicit affair. Tell her to take an example from Mary Magdalene."

Henry continued destroying the remainder of the room's luxury. The interior transformed into something akin to the ruins of imaginary ancient Greek cities, which could have been caused by the fierce struggle for supremacy between Zeus, King of Mount Olympus, and Cronus, Zeus' father and the leader of the preceding generation of Titans, had Cronus broken out of Tartarus. Henry paused only when he touched the tapestries portraying the Resurrection and Ascension of Christ.

At last, the king reined in his emotions. "It is as though God has now stopped me. He has spoken to me: I must pray harder for a son, and Jane must atone for her sin."

Henry stormed out. His subjects were dizzy with relief as the door slammed behind him.

§§§

The English monarch intended to celebrate the Feast of the Ascension of Christ in the Chapel Royal. It was well past midday, but he did not wish to forsake prayer on such an important day for every Christian just because his dreams of having a son had again been crushed.

Garbed in auburn silk attire wrought with gold, King Henry led his nobles through the splendid gardens. Everybody was already aware of what had transpired in the queen's chambers at dawn.

"The sun is high in the sky." Henry squinted his eyes. "I'm glad for the warmth after–" He abruptly trailed off, gulping for air like a dying man. "I'll not speak of it."

"As Your most magnificent Majesty commands," purred Lady Anne Bassett.

There was no official position of a chief royal mistress at the Tudor court. Nevertheless, today Lady Bassett walked several paces behind the monarch, together with the Duke of Suffolk and Sir Francis Bryan, as though the ruler was demonstrating Queen Jane's disfavor. Having not been invited to join the procession, the Seymours had retired to their quarters or the queen's.

"This place is so dear to me." The ruler surveyed the moated manor surrounded by acres of rolling green and bloom. "It is my boyhood home, such a sweet place for me."

At present, Brandon and Bryan were both in the monarch's highest favor. Charles had always been the ruler's close friend; Bryan had paved his path into the royal sanctum years ago. However, Suffolk's beliefs did not waver in the face of their sovereign's mood swings and radical changes in his opinions or policies. At the same time, Bryan was a crafty turncoat who had always kept himself in the king's good graces by manipulating Henry and dancing to his every whim.

"Your Majesty spent many gladsome days here," recalled the Duke of Suffolk.

Francis Bryan recollected, "Erasmus, a famed Dutch scholar and humanist, traveled to Eltham in 1499 to visit our future king. He remarked that Your Majesty 'had a vivid and active mind, above measure to execute whatever tasks you undertook'. He called you a genius!"

Suddenly, Henry halted. A twitch of his upper lip indicated his increasing perturbation. "I was a boy of seven summers back then. Sir Thomas More brought Erasmus to me."

"Yes, sire." Bryan figured out that these memories were unwelcome to his liege lord.

"That Boleyn witch!" The words were twisting the universe, bending it, reshaping it, as he attempted to persuade himself that Anne was the worst harpy on earth. "She killed More!"

At this, the assemblage stopped in their tracks. An icy shard of fear slashed through their fleeting remembrances of Thomas More's and Bishop Fisher's executions. Most of the Catholic courtiers blamed Anne for their deaths, for these two men had been condemned for their refusal to sign the Oath of Supremacy, and to acknowledge Elizabeth as the king's legitimate heir.

His eyes flashing with animosity, King Henry eyed his retinue. "There is something else you must all know. France defeated Spain, but that Valois peacock will not enjoy peace for long. In the future, I shall invade France and win a battle as legendary as Henry V's triumph at Agincourt."

Everyone blanched like a relic unearthed from a grave. The ruler's implacable hatred of Anne had long become known at court, but nobody wanted England to wage war against the House of Valois. After all, the mighty Emperor Charles had attempted to subjugate France, but he had failed, and his fate was still unknown after the Battle of Poitiers. In the past, English kings had endeavored to reclaim "their" lands in France, but all their attempts had ended in fiasco.

"Doubtless you will succeed, sire," chanted Bryan with a grin.

Nevertheless, Brandon noted, "Peace is necessary for survival in the disordered world."

Henry glowered at Suffolk. "You are my soldier, Charles! Do not embellish yourself with softness when we talk about enemies of England such as Anne and François."

"I apologize," Brandon intoned for appearance's sake. As visions of the butchered pilgrims, who had been murdered on his orders, blazed in his mind, the spear of his guilt shattered the shield of his conscience. Yet, he said, "I was born as your loyal subject, and will die as one."

The king's expression brightened. "That is why I love you, Charles."

"Where is the Duke of Norfolk?" inquired Bryan.

Henry apprised, "He went to his estates at Arundel."

Anne Bassett affirmed servilely, "Your Majesty is such a glorious warrior! You can conqueror France or any other land! After all, you subdued those revolting Catholic insurgents in the north. All others will bow to you as soon as they see your prodigious strength."

The mention of the revolt's suppression sent shivers down the spines of those Catholics who had signed the Oath for form's sake. The inhuman brutality with which the rebels and many of their families had been punished horrified them. Lady Mary Tudor brushed away a tear.

King Henry regarded his subjects, knitting his reddish brows forbiddingly. "I'm the King of England and the Supreme Head of the Church of England. Your sacred duty is to obey my wishes and commands. Anyone who dares rebel against me shall go to hell!"

A stab of dread ripped through the Catholics. Many paled to the grayness of death.

Through the maze of gardens, they strolled to the North Bridge above the moat and crossed it. Trumpets blared and kettledrums boomed as they entered the Chapel Royal.

When everyone gathered in the oratory, Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, came to the altar, while the choir sang the Entrance Chant. The Archbishop venerated the altar with the cross and went to his ceremonial chair of state. The gathering crossed themselves.

Cranmer proclaimed, "In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

"Amen," answered the monarch; the congregation echoed him.

The Penitential Act followed, and the Archbishop promulgated, "Brethren, let us acknowledge our sins, and so prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries."

The lords and ladies then recited together the general confession.

 _I confess to almighty God_

 _and to you, my brothers and sisters,_

 _that I have greatly sinned,_

 _in my thoughts and in my words,_

 _in what I've done and in what I've failed to do_

 _through my fault, through my fault,_

 _through my most grievous fault._

The king endeavored to find a reason why the Creator had not yet blessed him with a son. For years, he had implored God to give him a prince to carry on his legacy and create a new epoch in England. He had married the pure Jane! However, when the queen had not conceived for months, he had begun thinking more of frivolities of life. Henry had been back at his old merry time when he had slept with countless mistresses, his favorite concubine being Lady Anne Bassett.

The monarch's thoughts were interrupted by the people's voices.

 _Therefore, I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,_

 _All the Angels and Saints,_

 _And you, my brothers and sisters,_

 _To pray for me to the Lord our God._

The absolution from the Archbishop of Canterbury was pronounced.

 _May almighty God have mercy on us!_

 _Forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life._

"Amen," everyone chorused.

After crossing himself, Henry eyed the oratory with its exquisitely carved stalls and frescoes depicting Christ walking on water, healing Mary Magdalene, his fructification and resurrection.

At the sight of Magdalene, the ruler's mind floated back to Jane. _I've done nothing wrong. It is my right as king to have paramours. The Lord and the Virgin must have seen that Jane sinned somehow, so she miscarried._ All of his accusations and his barely surpassed rage sharpened into a single point: Jane had lost his son because she had deceived him of something.

The Liturgy of the Word was sung. The choir's music was somber in comparison to the lofty church atmosphere, but it still dazzled everybody, bringing tears to eyes of pious women and men. Soft light filtered in through stained-glass windows, giving the chapel a celestial glow. It seemed that in these moments, divine energy filled the air with the pure vibration of love for Christ.

Prayers for the Day of Accession from the Book of Hours followed.

 _O God of earth and sky,_

 _As Jesus came among us in Bethlehem to raise us up to heaven,_

 _So today we recall his departing from us at Jerusalem to be in all places._

 _Though he is hidden from our sight,_

 _Enable us to abide in him by the power and grace of the Holy Spirit,_

 _Until his mercy and grace fill your whole creation._

 _Amen._

King Henry was restless during the rest of the Mass. Archbishop Cranmer started the Liturgy of the Eucharist, and irritation festered in the pit of his stomach as the ruler watched Catholic rites performed. In spite of the break from Rome, the Church of England still remained largely Catholic. Cranmer's 'Ten Articles' had been crafted as a rushed interim compromise between conservatives and reformers, and it also kind of solidified the Catholic resistance to the religious reform.

 _Our Church is called the Henrician Church,_ mused the monarch. _Was it a mistake not to go down the road towards Protestantism? Is God punishing me for that by denying me a son?_ Even François – a staunch Catholic – allied with Protestant countries. Henry failed to concentrate on the Mass, and thoughts of religious and international matters were whirling across his consciousness.

Cranmer took the chalice and the paten. Raising both, he ended the Mass.

 _Through Jesus Christ, and with him, and in him,_

 _O God, almighty Father,_

 _In the unity of the Holy Spirit,_

 _All glory and honor._

The monarch then led the courtiers out of the oratory. As they promenaded through the park, the variegated clothes of the richly dressed nobles and their jewels gleamed in the sun.

King Henry stopped. "As your spiritual shepherd, I must establish Christian unity among my people. We shall continue giving the Bible in English to let everyone obtain the true understanding of the Christian theology, and to steer them away from the superstitious nonsense of the past."

"God Bless Your Majesty!" Archbishop Cranmer cried with a smile. He and other devout reformers broke into loud cheers, perceiving it as their victory.

Lady Mary Tudor came forward from the crowd. "Your Majesty, is it the right decision?" She ignored the admonishing glances of the Duke of Suffolk and many other Catholics.

The ruler's reply was laced with anger. " _Lady_ Mary, you signed the Oath and payed homage to me, your sovereign and father. You have to atone for the stubbornness you displayed under your late mother's detrimental influence. You will help me make some political deals."

"As you wish, sire." Mary was hurting from the injuries inflicted upon her by her parent.

"Do not cross me, Mary." Henry deigned to grant her a haughty smile.

As the monarch strode away towards the palace, Mary remained rooted to the spot, her mind in turmoil. "What does my father mean? Which alliances?"

The Imperial ambassador Eustace Chapuys approached her. "I do not know, my lady." He would have addressed her as a princess, but they could be eavesdropped upon.

"I cannot tolerate it anymore, Your Excellency." Tears spilled over her eyes and down the side of her face, wetting the earth of the heretical land, as she called it silently.

Chapuys took Mary's hand and squeezed it to lend her his moral support. His eyes were shadowed with concern about her future in the wake of the king's words, but he said nothing. He regretted that Sir Nicholas Carew was still in Bologna, awaiting the man's return impatiently.

§§§

"Anne, where are you? Wife!" Edward Seymour called upon entering his quarters.

In a handful of heartbeats, his spouse appeared in the antechamber. Her brows arched, she glided to him, her hands resting on her swollen belly. "What do you need, husband?"

Some of his ire deflated at the sight of her smile. "You look radiant, wife."

"A woman glows when a new life is growing inside of her."

Edward crossed to his wife. "At least, you have not miscarried."

She sent him a look of disgust. "You are scum."

He broke into a cynical laughter. "But you married me!"

Edward winked at the Lady Anne Seymour née Stanhope, Countess of Hertford. A couple of years ago, he had wed this woman, the only child of Sir Edward Stanhope. She was an heiress to her father's wealth and had royal blood in her veins, for she was a direct descendant of Thomas of Woodstock, the youngest son of King Edward III of England. Nonetheless, it was not the main reason why she was his choice of a spouse – they just were alike in all practical ways.

"I did, and gladly." She burst out laughing. "When my father told me about our betrothal, I consented because it was obvious that you and I are both more presumptuous than Lucifer. We are ambitious and unscrupulous in the use of tools which we need to achieve what we want."

Edward's grin was conceited. "You and I have enough, but we are covetous of other' wealth."

They saw eye to eye on this point. "We will be more powerful, husband."

A sudden twinge of lust and tenderness passed through the Earl of Hertford, prompting him to approach his spouse. He gathered Anne into his arms and stroked her head, his fingers tangling into her silky golden hair. They froze in this position, as though they had stepped into the palatial building of their warped happiness after earning all the riches in the universe.

As they parted, Edward viewed his wife from top to toe. Anne Seymour was a wonderful creature: her hazel-green eyes glistened like leaves after the rain, nicely setting off her porcelain skin and her strong, attractive face. She was appareled in a silvery gray damask gown ornamented with gold; her long, curvy, brown hair was arranged in a chignon. Her baby bump was increasingly visible in the light leaking in through the windows and glinting along her soft curls.

Anne Seymour scrutinized him with equal intensity. A tall man of athletic build, Edward had a strict countenance, pleasing enough and full of calculative intelligence. His piercing eyes of ice blue color, deep and clear, as well as his prominent forehead, and his pointed chin attested to his fabulous intellect. His rich, doublet and hose of black satin, worked with threads of gold, added to the air of unprincipled severity about him. Anne was satisfied to have him as her husband.

"I see lust in your usually cold eyes," she observed carefully.

Indeed, his loins swelled with the memory of her naked in their bed. "If you were not with child, I would have taken you now with a passion that is a rarity for both of us."

Anne mocked, "You have become too soft and perhaps even weak, my dearest cunning Dolus, for that ancient Greek spirit of trickery and guile has long taken over you."

"Dolus! You call me so in bed."

"Cunning, deception, and craft – these words sum up this Greek mythological deity."

Edward kissed her on the mouth. "Dolus' female counterpart is Apate, the Greek goddess of fraud and deceit." He hugged her briefly, whispering into her ear, "You are my Apate."

Anne appreciated their common traits. "Love is a missing factor for us. Because we lack that affection, that gentleness, that contentment, we escape into plotting, which produces further desire for privileges and simultaneously deepens our relationship based on ambition and greed."

He admired his wife's character. "What a perfect summation!"

She put her hand on her enlarged stomach. "But you must be a good husband to me, for I'm carrying our babe. Any nobleman, especially an arrogant earl such as yourself, needs an heir."

"A male heir." His hand flew to her belly.

Discomfited, she refused to continue their banter. "Edward, a woman is not a sorceress who can bewitch the male seed spilled in her into becoming a boy."

The Earl of Herford grinned as the child moved inside of her. "Be at ease, I know this. If it is not a boy this time, we will try again. The next time, we will have a son."

The countess smiled merrily. "I feel it will be a boy."

"Me too," he shortly.

They headed to their bedchamber, and the Countess of Hertford broached another subject. "I pity Queen Jane. It is not her fault that she lost her child. It can happen to any woman."

Edward paced their bedroom swathed in blue silks. "The angry king resembles an enraged Minotaur. He thinks Jane could have feigned her virginity. I fear he might annul their marriage."

Anne eased herself into an azure-brocaded chair. "What will we do?"

Pausing next to her, her husband murmured, "Anne, will you help me?"

She read his thoughts with ease. "As always. Do you want me to seduce King Henry so that I can control his mind? I can do this for the family after our baby is born in October."

"Yes. Just as I seduced Anne Bassett when Thomas failed to do that."

The Hertford spouses discussed his plan. Their minds worked as quickly and whimsically as a witch's spell, and no courtier would want to encounter the demons of their craft at the doorstep.

Edward ceased pacing. "I'll make Jane understand that she must stop weeping like a sultry wench abandoned by a lover. Now she must recover to later conceive again."

"She will accede to your commands in order to keep her weakening hold on His Majesty."

"That stupid ninny must obey me, or everything will be lost."

Anne Seymour hugged her own abdomen fondly. "There are thunderstorms in any marriage. But no one can guarantee that the queen will be able to birth the king a healthy son."

"Why?" Edward's anxiety was mounting. He seated himself in a chair beside her.

She held out her hand, which dropped before it could touch his. It irked her that men never held themselves responsible for their own mistakes. "Men, especially narcissistic kings, blame their wives for the lack of male issue or children at all. Sleeping with their spouses whenever they want, wishing more, refusing to love and respect them, yelling and complaining about trifles. Such are nearly all of the men I have met! Yet, maybe not a woman but a man is guilty: perhaps his seed is contaminated with some disease, preventing them from having his much-desired sons."

Edward tensed. "Do you mean that the king is incapable of fathering boys?"

"Given Catherine's and Anne's histories of miscarriages, this seems plausible."

"I pray you are wrong, wife." Yet, he admitted to himself that it was a real possibility.

The Countess of Hertford stood up and climbed into a canopied bed, hung with cloth of silver. "I wonder whether Anne Boleyn will give King François a son. Even if it happens not in her first pregnancy, then something must be _wrong not with King Henry's wives, but with him_."

Dismay flashed in his eyes. "I do not want to think about it."

Interested in foreign ways of life, Anne Seymour knew a lot about European courts. "The King of France had many children with Queen Claude, but some are no longer alive. His escapades are infamous, and he is rumored to be so male that any woman feels all the rewards of being his lover." A titter fled her lips. "I'm sure Anne Boleyn will find herself pregnant many times."

Edward eased himself onto the bed. "I've never seen King François, but I heard the same. He seems to be somewhat healthier than our sovereign, even though they are both virile. At least, that Valois mate does not have ulcerated legs because of falls on tournaments."

"If we play our cards well, a smile will spread across the devious face of Dame Fortune."

§§§

On his way to the queen's apartments, guileful ideas took shape in Edward's brain. His spouse would captivate the king after their child's birth, making Henry a clay in her vulpine hands. He would continue his clandestine liaison with the Lady Bassett. _Everything will go well, and Jane will get another chance. But if the king's seed is defective, we will all fall,_ he ruminated bitterly.

A familiar voice halted him in the corridor. "Lord Hertford, where are you going? The queen is sleeping after Doctor Butts gave her a lot of sleeping draught."

Pivoting to face her, Edward smiled. He despised the king's mistress, but he could not deny that she was beautiful. Over her gown of caramel brocade embroidered with pearls and triangles of bronze damask, Anne Bassett wore a surcoat of violet tissue, and a short mantle of the same material lined with sable. A diamond necklace adorned her bosom, from which also dangled a golden cross. Her toque of black velvet was festooned with tulle and an affiquet.

Edward's gaze fell upon her head. "Now you wear even an affiquet, Madame."

"I love French fashions." Lady Bassett moved towards him, her hips swaying like a bed of reeds in the confines of her gown. "They are seductive. His Majesty appreciates them.'

"I like them, too." Now it was a matter of paramount importance to drive this whore further from the monarch so that Henry could still visit Jane's bed after her recovery.

She giggled. "You can strip me of this dress."

"Gladly." Daggers of desire slashed through him, carving a trail to his loins.

Anne extended her hand to Edward. As he took it, she ascended the stairs, pulling him along behind her. It was obvious what she planned, and exactly what he hankered at this moment. Edward suspected that this woman could have other lovers in secret, and he craved to learn their names so as to blackmail her. Yet, now Edward surrendered to his primitive male needs.

§§§

"For pity's sake!" Gregory Cromwell bemoaned. "At least, pretend that we are married!"

His wife didn't respond. The walls draped in arrases of religious scenes were pressuring her into obeying her husband, but she resisted with all her might. The room was still, he could hear her breathing quicken, an additional distressing counterpoint to the sound of the opening door.

"All out!" He was uncharacteristically rude.

The footsteps receded, and Elizabeth assumed, "You have frightened my maids."

"They are used to you being alone here. But it will not always be so, my darling wife."

Elizabeth Seymour was a remarkable sight in a gown of beige and emerald silk, with a cap of red brocade rounded with ribbon and sprigs of orange blossoms. Her features were attractive: eyes cerulean like blue seawater, peach-tinged lips, wide brown brows sharply penciled as if for drama, full lips, and satiny skin with just enough freckles to hint at a sharp-tongued nature. The incongruous blend of feminity and a harshness in her countenance produced an intoxicating effect.

"Why did you arrive at court, Gregory? Definitely, not to ask after my family."

"I'm here to be your husband, as it should have been from the beginning."

With a sigh, Elizabeth plodded over to a canopied bed, which was swathed in burgundy velvet. Even in the dimness of the candlelight, a welter of emotion in her face was apparent, but it was not happiness to see her spouse. Perplexion, fear, and, most of all, anger.

"Be more specific. What do you wish to do?"

Gregory stepped to the bed. "We have not consummated our marriage."

Elizabeth's first husband – Sir Anthony Ughtred of Kexby – had passed away in 1534. The last thing a widowed Elizabeth wanted was to wed Cromwell's son, but their now dead father, Sir John Seymour, had forced her into his marriage. Gregory and Elizabeth had married a month after Jane's wedding to King Henry, but Gregory had been gallant to postpone the consummation.

She jeered, "Are you seducing me, Gregory? Acting like a beast such as your father is?"

"Enough," he growled, stepping closer to the bed. "I did not want to make you my wife, but my father compelled me to create an alliance between our families."

"As we both dislike each other, let us live separately."

His patience was at an end. "Damnation, I shall not continue this sham of a marriage. My father demands that I give him heirs because I am his only surviving son. And I shall no longer be the laughingstock of the whole court as they watch you live alone in your rooms."

His wife gaped at him. "Gregory, you will not–"

His voice and features softened. "Elizabeth, I want us to find common ground. No one knows that we have never been intimate. You had enough time to get to know me, but I had to depart from court until the Pilgrimage of Grace was not squashed, so we had little time together."

Elizabeth stood up to face him like a tigress. "When you left for your father's estates, you did not think that those insurgents could reach London and kill us all. You were kind to me on our wedding night, and I am grateful for the charade you have played. My relatives would have forced me to be with you, if they had learned the truth. Nevertheless, later you displayed such selfishness that it negated the noble image of you which I formed in my head."

"Sorry." However, his guilty look was fleeting. "My father advised me to act so. If the rebels had won or if the king had punished him unjustly, then I would have been in peril."

She settled herself back on the bed. "Why the bloody hell do you want us to be a couple when all you care about is Cromwell's advancement in politics?" Her acrimonious laugh hit his ears like barbs. "As your father's lapdog, you married me. Why are you playing the role of a perfect knight now? Go seek for intimacy elsewhere; there are many loose women at court."

"Our marriage is not a bliss," he observed dryly. "But I'm not like other men."

She misunderstood the meaning of his words. "You are not as bad as Cromwell?"

"I will not have mistresses." Gregory took a seat on the other side of the bed. "My father was always faithful to my mother. I think it is the right thing to do for a man."

"So, I'm stuck with you for years, while you will live in celibacy."

"If you keep showering me with your disdain, it will change nothing."

"Gregory, leave," his wife pleaded. "Do not complicate my life with your snooping about the Seymours' affairs. I've got enough troubles on my plate after Jane's miscarriage."

His gut tightened. "What would I be looking for? I'm not your enemy!"

She stiffened. "You are clearly intent on watching my every step."

"Mere expedience. So that you don't make others laugh at me more than they already do."

"What else did you expect to feel? Did you anticipate me to fall for you?"

Elizabeth was so caught up in reprimanding him that she had missed his impetuous movement. A moment later, she was in his arms, and they were rolling over together on the bed. As Gregory was on top of her, she clutched his shoulders and pushed him away, but unsuccessfully.

"You are beautiful, Lisbeth," Gregory whispered while removing her cap. Her hair tousled on the pillow, and he entangled his fingers into her tresses. "Let's become a little happier."

Gregory kissed her like a man deprived of tenderness for years, hot and deep, his hands sliding down her body. For a short time, his mouth left hers, and they froze in an embrace that no longer repelled Elizabeth. The softness mingled with melancholy in his eyes made his wife quiver with guilt that she had ignored him for so long. Her lips parted, and, at this encouragement, his tongue met hers, and he did not stop until he reduced her to a boneless mass of jelly.

§§§

From a window, Jane Boleyn watched a rainstorm unfold over the park. After Jane Seymour's awakening, the king had visited her, and now there was no calm soul in the queen's household.

Lady Mary Zouch shook her head in shock. "His Majesty said such dreadful things."

"Poor Queen Jane!" lamented Elizabeth Somerset, Countess of Worcester.

"Once the king threatened Anne Boleyn!" cried Anne Parr, Countess of Pembroke.

Dorothy Seymour barked, "Don't blabber! Keep sewing clothes for the poor!"

They occupied themselves with embroidery. Yet, these threats echoed through their heads.

 _I married you to beget heirs! Baby boys! You have disappointed me so! Remember the fates of your predecessors! Every day! If you fail me again, your punishment will be worse than theirs!_

Jane Boleyn eased herself in a chair and picked up her embroidery. Nevertheless, she could not sew and studied the queen's ladies. Dorothy's hands trembled as she was making stitches. Lady Pembroke and Lady Worcester wore looks of anxiety, blinking at every flash and rattle of lightning and thunder outside. Lady Zouch and other maids were better at masking their emotions.

The raindrops pelted the windows. Lady Rochford believed that nature was crying for the dead child. She had grown fond of Queen Jane thanks to the kindness from the king's wife after her return to court. She could not help but think that Jane Seymour would fail to give the monarch a son, like his previous wives. _Is the king cursed to never have a son?_ Jane Boleyn wondered.

As she glanced askance at Lady Worcester, white-hot rage boiled in Lady Rochford's veins. The Countess of Worcester was the chief informant against Anne Boleyn, so her lies had sent Anne into exile and annihilated her brother George. The Rochford spouses had not selected one another, but they had gotten along amicably, even though George's infidelities had irked her. However, Jane had never wanted George dead, having been powerless to save him after the Boleyn siblings' arrests. _I'm yearning to see George's and Anne's foes pay for their crimes_ , George's widow dreamed.

"No! My baby!" the queen's desperate shout resonated.

"She needs us." Dorothy jolted to her feet, so did Lady Worcester and Lady Pembroke.

These three women darted to the bedroom. The others remained in the antechamber, except for Lady Boleyn who stood up and followed them, but paused in the doorway.

"Drink some of this, Janie," urged Dorothy, whose arm was about her sister's recumbent form. "Doctor Butts left these herbs for you. You will be asleep in a few minutes."

"God bless Your Majesty." The Countess of Worcester brought a cup to the queen's lips.

Jane Seymour was slowly drinking the medicine. "He hates me so."

"Don't think of him," Dorothy instructed. "You must recuperate."

Anne Parr stood near the bed. "We will pray for you, Madame!"

Needless to say, Jane Boleyn emphasized with the queen. Yet, she was angry that those who had harmed Anne and George were now taking care of the very woman who was the reason for the tragedies which had beset the Boleyns. Remembrances of her spouse's execution were so painful that they could pulpify her bones. Unable to watch the scene in the bedchamber, Jane walked away. Her way forward was to lie low at court; solitude offered her a refuge from her sorrows.

The Viscountess Rochford returned to her place; there was no more talk between the ladies. The rain intensified to an extent that the windowpanes seemed to be quivering in the frames. There was something different from ordinary storm in this tempest. The tumult of rain and wind linked together, producing a wild roar, as if prophets were predicting something sinister.

* * *

 _I hope you liked this chapter. Let me know what you think, and thank you very much in advance._

 _New characters were introduced: Sir Francis Bryan, as well as Lady Anne Seymour née Stanhope, Countess of Hertford, and Lady Jane Boleyn née Parker, Viscountess Rochford. They are not main characters, but they will appear in the story from time to time. Jane Boleyn will appear very rarely until King Henry is willing to launch a new investigation into Anne's case._

 _Those who dislike Jane Seymour can be happy now. Jane had a miscarriage in this chapter, and Henry is not only upset, but also extremely angry with her. The king thinks that Jane's miscarriage on a holy day (the Feast of the Ascension is celebrated on the 15th of May) might be a sign that their marriage is cursed. I cannot tell you whether Jane will have a son or not; perhaps her second pregnant, if she conceives, will be successful, and Edward will be born. Hopefully, fans of Anne who loathe Jane will find in their hearts sympathy for Jane after this chapter._

 _Perhaps Henry cannot father healthy sons, as Jane Boleyn and Anne Seymour hypothesize; or perhaps he could. Anyway, it seems that Henry could have blood incompatibility with his wives or even blood disorder. The latest diagnoses for Henry are the coexistence of both Kell blood group antigenicity (possibly inherited from Jacquetta Woodville, Henry's maternal great grandmother), causing related impaired fertility, and McLeod syndrome, resulting in psychotic changes. I'm sure that you can google these illnesses, so I will not describe them in this note._

 _In ancient Greek mythology, the Cyclopes were gigantic, one-eyed monsters. At first, there were three of them: Arges, Steropes, and Brontes – they were supposedly the sons of Uranus and Gaea and the brothers of the Hecatoncheires and the Titans. Cronus imprisoned them in Tartarus, and upon being freed by Zeus, they pledged their fealty to him and fought for him against the Titans._

 _I have a poll about Edward Seymour's future. Please answer to the pool on my profile._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	19. Chapter 18: Water under a Layer of Ice

**Chapter 18: Water under a Layer of Ice**

 ** _May 15, 1537, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France_**

"I love my dear baby girl!" Queen Anne cradled her newborn daughter. "Her eyes are light blue, nearly translucent, like fresh water under a layer of ice. They are wonderfully tender!"

The royal apartments bathed in bright daylight streaming in through the large, high arched windows. Despite Anne's difficult pregnancy, the labor with her new daughter had been fast and easy, having taken only seven hours. The arrases on the walls, depicting the mythological wedding of the God Zeus and the Goddess Hera, added to the festive atmosphere in the room.

The _first_ daughter of King François and Queen Anne had arrived on the Solemnity of the Ascension of Jesus Christ. The queen had felt her first pains at early dawn when the all-night vigil had been celebrated in the royal chapel with the monarch and his court in attendance. Queen Marguerite of Navarre had been summoned to her sister-in-law's chambers from the church.

Marguerite appeared beside the queen's bed. "Your daughter has our mother's eyes. Her complexion is lighter than my and François'. She also has the Valois long nose."

Anne glanced at her sister-in-law. "We can call her Louise, if the king agrees."

"My brother will be overjoyed! The girl's resemblance to our late mother will move him."

A heavy dose of doubt shadowed Anne's countenance. Fears of her husband's reaction to her having a girl had plagued her for months like a feral ghost. Visions of Henry's disappointed face as he had first seen Elizabeth had haunted her with vicious persistence. _As King of France, François must secure the succession, which is extremely important due to the Salic law. However, I've birthed him a daughter… Will he loathe me for that?_ Anne could not help but shudder.

The Church, whatever Catholic or Protestant, and theologians demanded the nearly complete celibacy from all men and women, except for the purpose of procreation. Of course, few adhered to this principle, but men considered matrimony necessary only for producing progeny, while a wife must live in absolute continence, save those times when her husband bedded her to let her conceive. François must be no different from others, viewing marriage as the source of begetting _male_ heirs to continue the father-son Valois line, while keeping many mistresses.

Since the monarch's return to court a fortnight earlier, Anne and François were as distant as constellations were from the earth. The triumph of the Valois over the House of Habsburg was so glorious that she was exhilarated. The fact that Ferdinand von Habsburg was France's prisoner added to her elation. At the same time, her loneliness was like a disease slowly rotting her from the inside out, and Anne secretly longed for François to come to her, but he did not.

Marguerite figured out her thoughts. "François is not obsessed with male children. Claude gave him two girls before the late Dauphin François was born. My brother never blamed her for that, the Lord bless their souls." She crossed herself. "François loved his daughters and mourned for them when they passed away in early childhood. He adores all of his kids."

Anne made the sign of the cross. "God let the little Louise and Claude rest in peace." She remembered the names of the long-departed small Valois princesses. Her husband had lost several children, but they had not been close enough to discuss that; she empathized with his woes.

The Navarrese queen seated herself on the edge of the bed. "I would name her Louise. However, I am not sure that François would opt for the name of his dead daughter."

The king's wife kissed the baby's cheek. "Superstitions are the religion of feeble minds."

"A great man is not afraid of such trifles. He is a beacon in superstition's darkness."

"Are you lauding your beloved brother, Your Majesty?"

Marguerite emitted a sigh. "You have erected a wall between François and yourself. You have denied me our friendship, although I've always liked you. You and I were close in your early youth when you were part of my literary circle. Why are you pushing me away, Anne?"

Anne had the decency to blush. "I'm sorry. I'm just so afraid…"

"Let's discuss it later. At least, address me by my first name."

"Marguerite." The Queen of France's lips quivered in a shaky smile.

The Queen of Navarre grinned. "That is better."

The infant fussed in her mother's arms, her tiny pink mouth twisting as she worked herself into a fit. Anne cradled the child and began humming a tune while rocking her daughter until the girl smiled. Roses of pure, unconditional maternal love rushed through Anne's entire being like torrents of vivifying river, enlivening her with the strength to thrive and evolve.

"I love you so, my girl," Anne whispered to the baby.

 _Do not die, my princess,_ the Valois queen implored the child. _Do not leave me like my other unborn babes, and like François' two daughters._ She prayed that her daughter would have a long and fortunate life. A shard of guilt speared through her at the thought that this creature had not been supposed to exist, for she had planned to spend only the wedding night with François.

Lady Mary Stafford approached the queen's bed. "This is such a charming picture, sister. You and your daughter can be like Bellini's Madonna and the baby Jesus."

"Someone should paint them," concurred Marguerite.

"Mary, have you called the king?" inquired Anne, her voice trepidatious.

Her sister nodded. "He is coming."

"Oh!" The Queen of France's thoughts were on her daughter.

"François is not Henry," Marguerite stressed. "He will not be callous."

Anne breathed out a sigh. "I hope so."

Queen Anne had no clue as to what to expect. François had told her that it did not matter to him whom they would have. Yet, memories were scratching at the edges of her consciousness: Henry venting his frustration of having another daughter, Elizabeth, upon her; Henry screaming that Anne's womb was cursed because she had miscarried his sons twice; Henry roaring that no girl could ever rule a country. These unsavory images would haunt Anne until Doomsday's.

"But the Salic law," Anne spoke her thoughts aloud.

"François has two sons." However, Marguerite's words did not dissipate her fears.

"I've missed my Elizabeth so much," Anne lamented. "She would have been happy to have another sibling. But she will never meet her younger sister."

Her sister-in-law smiled whimsically. "Fate works in mysterious ways."

§§§

The door opened, and the French monarch strutted inside. Everyone, excluding his sister, dropped into a curtsey. Marguerite dismissed the other ladies from the queen's room.

"I hear we have a daughter," François commented in the most cheerful accents.

His spouse flicked her gaze to him. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty."

Marguerite and Mary stepped aside. The king's sister grinned at her brother; Mary was full of apprehension, fearing that François would be disappointed with his daughter's birth.

"For what?" François quizzed as he settled himself on the bed.

Tears gleamed on Anne's lashes. "It is a daughter."

His sigh was as depressing as Anne's mood. "The Almighty, not a woman, determines a baby's gender. Children are His greatest gift and blessing for mankind."

"The girl bears uncanny resemblance to our late mother," Marguerite observed.

A soul-stirring emotion brightened the ruler's amber eyes a shade. "Let her be Louise."

"Mother would be most delighted," Marguerite effused. "This name suits the girl."

François' scrutiny focused on his queen with something akin to innate fondness. "Anne, would you mind if she became the most beautiful and dearest Louise in my realm?"

"As you command, sire." Anne planted sweet kisses on the baby's cheeks.

He pointed out, "We can choose another name."

"No!" The French queen bestowed upon him a luminous smile, which he had not seen on her face since their wedding. "Louise means a famous warrior and fighter. Although I was very young when serving Queen Claude, I met Madame Louise de Savoy many times. I admired her intelligence, courage, strength, and prominence. I'm happy to name our daughter after her."

François flashed her a grin. "Thank you for praising my mother."

"I've just spoken the truth," Anne assured.

Mary stayed at a distance; her heart swelled with relief as she observed the king. "Princess Louise was born on the Feast of the Ascension of Christ. That is a good omen!"

"Indeed," Marguerite assented. "She will grow up a clever, strong, and lovely girl."

The monarch's amber eyes shone with the paternal affection he felt for his new child. "She will be the finest small jewel of our family. She will beautify our lives!"

Anne's misgivings dissolved. "Do you want to hold _our_ Louise, sire?"

"Of course!" François theatrically extended his hands to Anne. "She is my treasure!"

Anne handed the infant to her father. "Be careful," she requested as the child settled in the king's arms. "You want to grab her in the same theatrical way as Oedipus pulled Antigone into his arms in Sophocles' Theban plays. But she is not a woman to be treated so."

"Louise is my girl!" François cradled the baby in the crook of his arm. "The ancient Greeks valued the power of spoken word, and oral storytelling flourished back then. Any word, poem, and gesture expressed emotion, so they glorified it. Are we worse than the Greeks?"

Anne, Marguerite, and Mary burst out laughing. The other ladies-in-waiting also tittered from the nearby room, where the door was left ajar, so they could hear the conversation.

 _My and Anne's baby with our mingled blood!_ the monarch effused silently. Several years had elapsed since one of his mistresses had birthed his child. Dauphin François and his two little daughters had been ripped from the world of the living. The king had not yet recovered from these tragedies, but now his bereavement was superseded by unconditional devotion to the baby Louise.

As the infant stared at him, the ruler reminisced, "In childhood, I loved our mother's eyes. When our father died, I was a heartbroken child of two summers, but the azure tenderness in our mother's eyes lulled me into calmness. And to see these identical eyes again..."

A tear slid down Marguerite's cheek. "That is true, brother. Our mother's eyes were the most mesmerizing shade of azure with a touch of dark blue when she watched us together."

The ruler brought his baby closer to him. As if in puzzlement, the child touched his cheek tentatively and peered into her parent's eyes. François kissed the girl on the forehead, and little Louise giggled, which elicited laughs from Anne, Marguerite, and Mary.

François held the child, as if showing her off to an audience. "Anne, look at _our_ daughter! She will be more intelligent and more formidable than her female relatives are altogether."

Anne arched a brow. "You place such importance on her intellect."

The king bounced the babe up and down in his lap. "I dislike brainless women. I respect only those ladies who make the most of themselves by fanning the sparks of possibility into the flames of accomplishment. How can we have stupid progeny, Anne? We are too smart!"

This sent Anne over the edge. "Your Majesty must have fathered numberless bastards. Are all of your paramours and their illegitimate issue as smart as you want our daughter to be?"

"Oh my Lord," Mary Stafford gasped.

"That is such an insult," one of the queen's maids opined in the adjacent room. Mary hurried to close the door, and then retired to the other side of the room.

"Anne!" Marguerite stepped closer to the bed. "Are you deliberately ruining this moment?"

"Family?" Anne rasped. "Do we have it?"

"Stop it!" the Navarrese queen berated. "Why do you need this clash?"

The monarch shot back, "My queen has simply reminded me of the terms of our marriage."

"Brother, forget it. Anne, you should not–" Marguerite was interrupted.

"It is normal for my wife and me." King François heaved a sigh as the infant's eyes became chilly, as if her mother's chilliness had transmitted to her. "Louise's eyes are the color of water under a layer of ice. Our mother could be very cold as well, in particular in politics. The color of our daughter's eyes will not let it slip from my mind that my wife loathes me."

"I do not hate you, sire." Anne sighed against the rush of stinging shame.

After kissing the baby, the ruler passed her to his queen. "You are my Antigone, Anne."

His consort was bewildered. "What?"

The ruler's gaze oscillated between the Boleyn sisters. "Sophocles portrayed his Antigone as a heroine who recognized her filial duty, unlike her sister Ismene. He outlined his ideal of the female character in Antigone, and I admire such women above all others. The bold Antigone went against King Creon's decree in spite of the consequences to honor her deceased brother."

He paused to let his speech sink in. "Anne, you do not need to defy anyone, for you have enough freedom in our marriage of convenience. But at least display the same loyalty to me as Antigone did to her family. Do not continue down the self-destroying path that will take us to a point where we will be willing to get rid of our misery by any means, perhaps even to die, just as Haemon, Antigone's betrothed, committed suicide after finding Antigone dead."

"Forgive me." The Queen of France realized that she had crossed a line.

The ruler rose to his feet. "Be at ease: you will not see me until the court moves to Paris."

"Oh." Anne clamped her mouth shut.

"Maybe your love for our daughter will cleanse your soul of negative memories. But, as Socrates said, I only know that I know nothing." His low voice was flat like frozen floodwater.

Without a backward glance, a despondent François marched to the door and quitted the chamber. Marguerite followed him like a shadow of exasperated melancholy.

§§§

"What have you done, Anne?" Mary Stafford reproached her sister.

Leaving her younger sister alone in the bedroom, Mary ran after King François and Queen Marguerite. She found them in the antechamber with Doctor Jean Fernel.

"Is my wife all right?" questioned François with concern.

The medic inclined his head. "Being a strong young woman, she will bear more children."

As the man bowed and exited, Mary approached the royals and curtsied to them.

"Another child!" François snickered sorrowfully. "My own wife abhors even my touch, and I'll abide by the terms of our deal. So, little Louise is the last addition to the Valois dynasty in the near future, unless Catherine de' Medici is fertile and bears Henri's child."

Mary was biting her bottom lip. "Your Majesty, I apologize for Anne's behavior."

The king soothed, "You have no power over your obstinate sister."

Marguerite lamented, "Oh, brother! Anne thinks that affection poisons marriage. She is pushing away her happiness with her own hands, depriving you of peace."

"I'll talk to Anne," promised Mary, her expression resolute. "Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forward. I'll explain that to her."

Disbelief painted his handsome features. "Anne is pertinacious, undaunted, and loyal to a fault, though not to me. She always stands by her beliefs, and they do not waver. If you succeed, Madame Stafford, you will deserve to be made immortal by Zeus."

Mary parried half-seriously, half-jokingly, "I'll not be ravaged by Zeus' lust again."

He heaved a sigh. "I thought that we left our affair and my unfairness to you are in the past."

"Yes, sire." She continued audaciously, "Yet, I remember the wonderful moments I spent with Your Majesty. I do not regret that we were… erm… close: you made me happy and more knowledgeable of myself, despite the heartbreak that followed your break-up with me. As I said, I'm grateful for your kind words, but you are not obliged to say them – you are a king."

François' affable gaze seemed to swallow her whole. "I'm glad that you have kept some fond memories of us. I consider you my friend, Madame Stafford."

Mary would always remember this unforgettable man, even though she had realized that she had never truly loved him. "First impressions are the most lasting."

Marguerite interposed, "Madame, you have survived through many trials and tribulations. Nevertheless, you are aware that a loveless life is like a living hell, and the old Anne Boleyn knew that as well. I pray that your sister will come to her senses."

An aura of dejection encircled the ruler's whole being. "I do realize the extent of the dreadful damage caused by Henry to Anne. I've been as gentle with her as possible. I've never asked for her love – all I need is friendliness, or at least no hostility towards me." He sighed. "To be honest, it is no wonder Anne frequently collided with the intemperate Henry. Rage is not a typical feeling for me, but it is hard to handle such an unruly wife. Yet, I do not want to withdraw from her life."

Mary's shoulders slumped. "Anne cannot squander her second chance at happiness."

Marguerite counseled, "Brother, being slow and steady wins the race."

"From your mouth to God's ear." A sense of futility permeated every cell of his body.

The sovereign of France spun on his heels, with his sister trailing after him.

Staring at the closed door, Mary huffed, "Oh, Anne."

Anne and Mary Boleyn. The Boleyn girls, as they were labeled at European courts. They were as different as the Goddess Hera, the great Madame of marriage and procreation, and the lustful, flippant Goddess Aphrodite were in mythology. Anne had always been more intelligent, more serious, more willful, and more headstrong; and she had also been a darker and crueler person than Mary. Yet, Anne possessed the ability to attain the seemingly unachievable, and behind the layers of her ambition, her capacity to love was as immense as the heavens.

Mary was rather conflicted over Anne's new union. _I know how superficial the flamboyant François de Valois might be in his amours. Nonetheless, he may cease his profligacy, provided that Anne will put effort into rescuing their marriage._ Years had passed since Mary's liaison with the King of France, and their two personal conversations proved that he had matured into a better man. She had been prejudiced against François, but now her attitude changed.

"The king went to his rooms." Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, walked in.

This snapped Mary out of her reverie. "Yes, he did."

The two former mistresses of King François scanned one another. Since Mary's arrival at court, they maintained a distant, yet friendly, relationship. The two women were interested in each other in the light of their connection to the monarch; they were also worried about Anne.

Françoise shared her observations with Anne's sister. "His Majesty is gradually falling for Queen Anne, but he does not understand that yet. One day, his sentiments towards her will morph into an overmastering love. No woman can resist such a strong feeling, unless she is as ill-disposed towards men and the idea of marriage as Her Majesty is at present."

This was a befuddling turn of events. "Can François really love my sister? Or will he spend one night in her bed and then fly to someone else's like a butterfly?"

"Yes, he can," the countess assured with supreme certainly. "François never loved a woman before because he never met _his female equal in all senses_. Your sister is this woman. He may set aside others and pledge his heart to his lady love if she ceases shunning and disrespecting him."

Mary tipped her head. "As a powerful king, he will not tolerate any insults."

"King François extols chivalric courtship and noble marriage, but only if his lady is the most extraordinary one. Claude of France, Eleanor of Austria, and his mistresses were not this type of person, but your sister is. I hate the Spaniards, but I like _'Amadís de Gaula'_ by Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo. François is like Amadís who worshipped his Oriana for a long while, despite the postponement of their wedding and enmity between Amadís' and Oriana's fathers."

"I do not know the king enough to make such conclusions."

"I shall always love François." Madame de Foix's countenance was imbued with her eternal adoration for him. "He discarded me years ago, but we have retained our friendship. I want him to be happy with your sister. I know him very well, and I swear that my words are as true as the fact that your sister is innocent of all the charges leveled against her in England."

A dart of awkwardness struck Mary. "I believe you, Madame de Châteaubriant."

"It is painful to watch Anne hurt François while also traumatizing herself. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and if she takes it to him, he will make her content."

Smiling at her own candor, the Countess de Châteaubriant fled the chamber. Her usually repressed amorous feelings for the ruler had resurfaced and hit her with a force so blinding that the harsh reality, where she was not loved by her idol, almost knocked the breath out of her.

Mary stood frozen to the spot. _François wants their relationship to work,_ she observed critically _. Even if there is no love between them, it is still far better for Anne to be François' wife than Henry's._ François was far nobler, not volatile, and incapable of any atrocities perpetrated to inflate his ego or satisfy his vices. Once Mary's sister had kept the attentions of the mercurial English king for nearly ten years, having driven him from his Spanish wife and the Vatican.

Would François fall in fervent, yet pure, love with Anne? Given that Anne and François had a great deal in common, Mary reckoned that it was a realistic possibility. Like Henry, François was a man of untamed amatory wildness, but he was a creature of far more subtlety than his English rival. In contrast to Henry, François needed a clever and talented consort. Love required peace and could not live upon the pitiful remnants of the past, Mary knew that for a certainty.

"We have a sister," Charles de Valois, Duke d'Orléans, interrupted her musings.

A few moments later, Dauphin Henri, Prince Charles, and Princess Marguerite, together with Mary, entered. They had been invited to their stepmother's apartments to meet their new sister.

§§§

"She is so bonny!" Princess Marguerite exclaimed.

"Little Louise is a Valois through and through." Prince Charles voiced his observation.

"Louise after our grandmother," Dauphin Henri said. "This name suits her."

The king's children surrounded the bed, where Queen Anne rested with her daughter.

Henri was nervous about what he was going to ask. "Your Majesty!" He paused, this word still unfamiliar on his tongue relative to Anne as his father's consort. " _My friend_ would like to see the newborn if you don't mind. Actually, she is waiting outside your rooms."

"Dauphine Catherine?" quizzed Anne.

Henri shook his head. "No, Madame de Poitiers."

The queen's brow shot up. "Ah, I see."

Charles huffed, "Your mistress, Henri? What has come over you?"

"Please, do not quarrel!" Marguerite did not want any arguments between them. It hurt her that her brothers often behaved like rivals for both the throne and their father's heart.

"It is no use, sister." Henri's countenance tightened, becoming reminiscent of that feral look he had worn when he had confronted his father all those months ago. "Charles – not me – started this. He never misses an opportunity to disparage my best friend."

Charles blustered, "A friend of yours? She is your _putain_! Henri, how dare you insult Her Majesty so? I bet our father, whom you blame for his philandering ways, has never asked our late mother, Claude, to meet with any of his lovers on the day of your birth."

Henri's look turned more ferocious. "Charles, don't humiliate me and my lady love!"

"God!" Marguerite could not stop these two stubborn mules.

"Enough!" the queen interjected. "You will awaken my daughter!"

"Sorry," Charles and Henri chorused.

"Charles, you are impulsive," Anne berated the king's youngest son. "A trait that you share with your father. You have to be more down to earth; otherwise you will never get success."

Charles was genuinely sad. "I did not mean to upset you."

The queen flicked her gaze to the dauphin. "Your Highness, I'll meet your friend. And I hope it is the last time I see you and your brother at each other's throats because of a trifle."

"Remember that!" Marguerite was pleased that their stepmother had chided them both.

"I did not cause a scandal," Henri defended himself.

The princes and the princess were gone. Soon Henri returned with his mistress.

Diane swept a curtsey. "Congratulations on your daughter's birth, Your Majesty."

Henri and Diane approached the queen's bed, and a short silence ensued.

Involuntary, Anne shivered under the woman's seemingly affable gaze. As she peered into Diane's eyes, she discerned only cold, as though she contemplated a realm of eternal snows.

Diane's beauty, truly rare and incredible, impressed Anne a lot. _Diane seems to be a flawless goddess, too perfect to be a mortal_ , she observed while perusing Madame de Poitiers. Although Anne remembered the woman from her early years in France, she had rarely seen Diane so close. Even after her arrival at court, Henri kept distance from his stepmother, and so did Diane.

A gown of black and white silk ornamented with pearls stressed Diane's classic elegance. Yet, her beauty was icy cold, like that of an exquisite marble statue. Her perfect face, with a petite nose and well-formed rosy lips, was framed by straight, waist-length, blonde hair falling down her back. Her eyes, crystal blue like the sky after a spring rain, shimmered with a chilly light, like the flashes of the steel blade on which the torchlight falls. Diane's imperious brow and her proudly set chin, as well as the gaze of an empress accentuated her self-assumed superiority.

With an aura of sweetness about her, Diane asked, "Is Your Majesty feeling well?"

"I'm fine," Anne answered, her scrutiny briefly touring to the sleeping infant in her arms and then back to Diane. "The newest addition to the royal family is also healthy."

The other woman let out a smile. "I'm so very happy for King François and you. Although we women have to play many roles, none is more important than motherhood."

Anne fired, "They should not interfere with politics. Is that what you are implying?"

Diane held her gaze unflinchingly. "We both have two daughters, but our intelligence makes us inclined to vehemently discuss things considered by many forbidden for females. What I meant to say is that in a man's world, we still have to devote most of our lives to our children."

The dauphin supported his mistress. "Now, when our queen has a child, it will ease the pain stemming from her estrangement from her firstborn daughter, Elizabeth Tudor."

It irked the queen that her stepson had not referred to her dear Lizzy by her proper title. Nevertheless, she responded evenly, "Somewhat, but not entirely."

Diane put in, "The king and you can have _more daughters_ for your happiness."

Henri nodded. "I'd love to have _many sisters_ around me."

 _They want me to have only girls,_ the incensed queen concluded. A surge of wrath filled her, and she warded off the desire to snap at them. "If it is God's will, let it be so."

Diane's scrutiny shifted to the baby. "The girl's name means a warrior. It reminds me of Madame Louise de Savoy, who was a true female knight of unprecedented intelligence."

Anne kissed the child. "If my girl is like Madame Louise, it will be good for France."

"Indeed," admitted Henri. "Madame, we will not impose upon you anymore."

Diane curtsied. "It was a sheer pleasure to see you and the princess."

Henri bowed to his stepmother. "See you soon."

As the lovers walked to the door, Anne observed Diane's swan-like movements. The greater the distance between them was getting, the warmer air blew towards Anne. _How could Henri fall for such a cold woman? Her beauty must have captivated him_ _despite their age difference._

When Dauphine Catherine came to her, Anne was so exhausted that she quickly dismissed her. After the little princess had been taken to the crib, fatigue vanquished Anne.

§§§

King François and Queen Marguerite strutted through the great hall. In the midst of marble statues, salamanders, and garlands, they looked every inch like the God Pan and the Goddess Demeter in their matching black-slashed attire of the finest asparagus silk wrought with gold.

The nobles bowed and curtsied to them, curiosity written across their faces.

All at once, François and Marguerite paused in the center of a long hallway.

The monarch announced, "Friends! Today, my wife, Queen Anne, has been delivered of a healthy girl. I've named her Louise in honor of our dearly-departed mother, Duchess Louise de Savoy." With a smile, he twirled around to showcase the gladness he however did not feel after the quarrel with Anne. "Pray for the health and long life of my queen and our new child!"

The jubilation of the courtiers was mixed with the murmurings of surprise.

"I'm the happiest man," the ruler reiterated, displeased by their lackluster reaction. "Years ago, God called my two little daughters home. I've wanted another daughter for so long!"

This worked like a spell on the assemblage. Handkerchiefs were waved as the older women burst into tears at the remembrance of the two girls whom the youthful François had carried in his arms in front of his court, showcasing them in a prideful display of his paternal affection.

Marguerite shouted, "Long live King François and Queen Anne!"

"Long live Their Majesties!" the congregation echoed.

Anne de Montmorency, Constable of France, appeared behind his liege lord and the king's sister. "Long live King François, Queen Anne, and Princess Louise!"

"God bless Queen Anne!" cried Cardinal de Tournon. "She has given us a new princess!"

This time, the cheers were unbridled as they congratulated their sovereign.

François leaned closer to his ministers. "Thank you both."

"I'm always at your disposal," Tournon answered with arrogance.

Montmorency's smile was pompous. "I'm always where I must be – at my king's side."

"I'm a haughty creature, too," the ruler acknowledged with a grin. "But an arrogant person considers themselves perfect. That is the chief harm of arrogance."

Having administered friendly pats upon their shoulders, François and Marguerite strolled through the corridor adorned by busts of the heroic Heracles and his adventures in myths. In the contiguous hallway, an irate Claude d'Annebault was castigating Philippe de Chabot.

Chabot sniggered. "That Boleyn woman cannot bear sons."

"How dare you slander Her Majesty!" Annebault fumed.

"Philippe," François called harshly, and Chabot's snickering died away.

The Admiral of France swept an obsequious bow. "How can I serve Your Majesty?"

The monarch scowled at him blackly. "Believe nothing of what you hear and half of what you see. I do not trust those groveling toadies who hover around me, hanging in faux awe on every even banal word that I utter. But I did not know that you are one of them, and I'm most vexed."

A bit frightened, Chabot's lips twitched. "I beg your pardon, my liege."

François forewarned, "Never speak of Queen Anne in this way again."

"Or you will pay for it," Marguerite supplemented.

The royals stomped away towards the staircase that led to the second floor.

"Do you want to be alone?" Marguerite asked her brother as they climbed the stairs.

"Yes," confirmed the ruler. With a sigh, she nodded and hastened to her rooms.

* * *

 ** _May 25, 1537, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France_**

King François decreed, "Your reports must be ready by the end of the week."

His gait like that of an annoyed, domineering master, the ruler crossed the presence chamber to the door. For his advisors, his mood swings were unusual, for he had a mellow disposition.

Every day the barbs of his marriage scratched at the monarch's consciousness. A week ago, Princess Louise had been baptized. Marguerite de Navarre and Maria, the Duke de Guise's elder daughter, stood as the godmothers; Anne de Montmorency and the ambassador from Landgrave Philip of Hesse were the godfathers. François had not visited Anne after their collision.

In the upper gallery, through the king marched, the walls were frescoed with mythological scenes. His gaze landed on the depiction of the Roman Goddess Venus in all her erotic beauty. A rapier of carnal hunger ripped through him, and his mind floated to Anne d'Heilly.

"Groom!" the king shouted. "Fetch Madame d'Étampes."

"A moment, Your Majesty." The lad hurried to fulfill the order.

François directed his scrutiny at the plafond, fixing it upon the birth of Venus of sea-foam. A chaos of anguish, fury, and desperation was plundering him from the inside, and he needed the incarnation of Venus to yield to him. _Anne is not inclined to be with me, and her attitude to me is brusque, to say the least. However, I still have my mistresses._ Then he entered his apartments.

§§§

"François _, mon amour_!" Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly curtsied gracefully.

The King of France was lounging in a gilded armchair decorated with carvings of dryads. He wore only his hose and shirt after having stuffed his doublet into a large vase that stood near a table piled with books. He stood up and stepped to her, wrapping his hands around her waist.

Anne disentwined herself from his grasp and backed away. As she stopped near the table, she raised her skirts up enough that it was only barely covering her private parts.

He cleared his throat. "Is it a new game of yours, my Venus?"

She chortled. "I like having fun with you, my Zeus."

The monarch closed the gap between them. "You are a naughty girl, Madame d'Étampes. Today, you will become my Antigone, and you will expel my sorrows."

His mistress moaned wantonly. "I'll do whatever you want, my king. But Antigone died in that great tragedy of Sophocles. Do you want me to live in the underworld?"

"Of course not. Just give me rapture."

Grinning waspishly, the duchess uttered a cry of triumph in her mind. _I've won the battle against that Boleyn slattern,_ she exulted in her mind. _She birthed him a girl, and he came to me, just as he always does._ The confidence of his immortal devotion to her instigated her to act.

Anne laughed. "Your Venus will beautify your life tonight." Tossing her hair, she slid her skirts down to her knees, and then slowly removed her gown.

Suddenly, his desire ebbed away like the river rushing out of the estuary. Anger with himself for his initial intention to bed her ripped through François. The thick air of prurience about Anne was enhanced by a salacious glint in her eyes, and by her inviting gesture as she beckoned him to her. Oddly, to François at this moment, her image was repugnant rather than attractive.

The king stepped back. "Get dressed."

Her puzzled eyes bore into hers. "What? You are my second half, and I'm yours."

Moving to the depths of the chamber, he cautioned, "Anne, your possessive and overbearing ways are perhaps the worst of all your weaknesses." He returned to his armchair and took a deck from a black marble table that stood between two armchairs. "Let's play _Primero_."

His paramour donned her garments, struggling against the swell of tears in her breast. She seated herself next to him, and François dealt four cards to both of them according to the rules. In Primero, each player had three options: bid, stake, or pass. Every time Anne passed instead of staking the previous bid. Her thoughts were elsewhere: ideas on how to warp the monarch into her sticky web again whisked through her mind as fast as she was losing at the card table.

The last rim of daylight was gone. Servants lit candles and hurried to leave.

"You have lost," the king marveled.

"True." Her voice sounded breathy.

"You are usually a brilliant gamester. What is wrong today?"

"You!" Anne repeated, "You, François!"

The ruler threw the deck at the table. His silence confused, tormented, and irked her.

The duchess expressed her wishes aloud. "François, I know that we cannot be married. But I'm yearning to be your official maîtresse-en-titre as long as we both live."

For a long time, François was silent again. "I do not know, Anne."

Panic lacerated her insides. "Why?"

Her eyes searched his, but he averted them. "Something is happening to me."

"What is it?" She stretched her hands to him, but he shoved them away.

Silence! Again! The lack of the monarch's response was grating against the charred remains of the dreams of her happiness with François. Anne de Piselleu scrutinized his countenance: it was devoid of emotion, his eyes as blank as those of a stranger. _He has changed since his wedding, but he continued bedding me regularly. Until today. Why, my king?_ She craved her lover to ride her hard until they reached many strong climaxes, but he had not touched her today.

"François, I do desire to be yours!" The duchess stepped to his armchair and swatted him on the chest. "You are only mine! You do not belong to any queen or anyone else!"

Something shattered in the king. "A wrong move, Madame d'Étampes."

"François, I love you more than life itself," she affirmed fiercely, gripping his forearm. Quite baffled, she put in, "You have always liked the tempestuousness of my nature."

Brushing her hand away, he crossed to the walnut cabinet adorned with geometrical motifs and moulded console frieze. "No one will ever dictate to me what to do."

At present, the King of France looked at his chief paramour with fresh eyes, wondering how she had once ensnared him so utterly _. I can take Anne de Pisseleu right now, and she will give me enormous physical gratification. Nonetheless, our encounters have long started to leave me as hollow as a tomb robbed of its corpse._ His passion for her seemed to have faded after this fateful realization, like a funeral torch trampled out at some symbolic moment of a procession.

The emerald eyes brimmed with fear. " _Mon amour_ , you cannot–"

The ruler interrupted, "Madame, for so long, I invested a great deal of my energy and time in doing many things to please you. I indulged you like a goddess. You and I were content together until you began taking my generosity and affection for granted, as though I owed you everything. As a result, now you reckon that you wield power over your own sovereign."

The shock rooted her to the bed. "You are mistaken. Together we have fully experienced everything one could desire in life. Only moments earlier, we were together!"

His ire deflated a little. "We celebrated my successes and expanded our ability to engage with life on a deeper level. Yet, you have long been pushing the boundaries too far."

Anne feigned submission. "What should I do to please you?"

"Nothing, save leaving me alone."

She yelled, "It is all because of that dratted English slattern! She gave you a daughter, just as she did to King Henry. But you prefer her over me, despite our long-term romance."

His temper exploded in a boiling eruption, in an uncharacteristic way for the even-tempered François. "Get out! I warned you not to disparage my queen, but you have done so _again_ , and that is unforgivable. Disappear now, or you will regret that we met all those years ago."

 _He no longer loves me, does he? But how can it be true?_ the Duchess d'Étampes wondered, her face drenched in nervous sweat. An impermeable cloud of fright encompassed her, blinding her to all beyond the appalling picture of the king's glare shooting daggers at her.

The duchess got dressed. "I shall remember this, Your Majesty."

"Go to one of your estates. If I forgive you, I'll send a page to you."

She winced at his hostility. "I'll wait for your letter."

The noise of the shutting door behind her marked the end of the old era for the king.

Although his wife continuously rejected him, François banished his maîtresse-en-titre. How to explain the hollowness in his heart, the grief over Anne's estrangement from him, which were harrying him day after day? As he envisaged little Louise's eyes glittering like water under a layer of ice, the ruler prayed that the love for their daughter would melt the cold in his consort's soul.

* * *

 ** _June 10, 1537, Quirinal Palace, Rome, the Papal States_**

The sun had risen over the Quirinal Hill, the highest of the seven hills of Rome. Crowded with churches, aristocratic palazzos, and villas, this place housed the papal residence as well.

Inside the pontifical apartments, the gilded furniture glowed in the sunlight like tongues of flames. Those inquisitorial flames which incinerated the Protestants and all those who refused to recant. The interior's luxury was fabulous: biblical frescoes by famed painters, bronze chandeliers, gilded ornaments whenever possible, golden statues, and the floor overlaid with red cloth.

Pope Paul sat at the black marble table, a half-empty goblet of wine in his hand. At the age of sixty-nine, he was still in good health and energetic. A grizzled beard framed the bottom of his wrinkled face that was the home of deep-set sly hazel eyes, which danced with life.

"Your Holiness!" Sir Nicholas Carew cried. "Let me kill Elizabeth Tudor!"

"Pull in your horns, Carew!" The Bishop of Rome drained the goblet and set it on the table.

Carew persevered, "I've been here for days. I must know what to do next."

"Wait, my son." The Pope gestured for him to be seated on a low stool beside him.

"Thank you." Carew made himself comfortable, stretching his legs out.

Alessandro Farnese, known as Pope Paul III, was in a foul mood as of late. Everything was going wrong: the harlot had not only escaped her death in England while keeping her daughter as King Henry's heir, but also married King François. Under her influence, England had broken with Rome, and France had formed the coalition with the Protestant nations. The prelate's animosity towards Anne Boleyn was so intense that he would have burned her at the stake himself.

When the conclave had elected Farnese Head of the Catholic Church after the death of Pope Clement VII, he had obtained the pontificate in a turbulent era following the Sack of Rome in 1527. The worst danger for _the true faith_ , as the Catholics called it, was the Protestant Reformation that had started in several countries, including England, and in German duchies. Additionally, the Holy Roman Empire was rife with spreading heresy and now also with internal political chaos in the aftermath of the emperor's defeat in France and his brother Ferdinand's capture.

The Pope was awash in relief that the rapacious appetites of Emperor Carlos for power had been curbed. He had reveled in the news of the injured emperor's escape from the battlefield of Poitou. It was when his terror of seeing the holy city sacked once more by the Habsburg troops had relinquished its hold upon him. On the flip side, Farnese did not need an excessively strong France, also fearing the consequences of having the Protestant queen on the French throne.

 _She is a capable slut, that Boleyn girl,_ Farnese thought with abject loathing and yet grudging respect. _She ensnared both Henry and François. Only Eleanor of Aquitaine married two kings._ It did not matter whether Catherine of Aragon had consummated her marriage to Arthur Tudor. Like his predecessor, Paul would never have annulled Henry's union with Catherine out of his fear before the emperor. When the Imperial invasion of France had been launched, he had been silent on the matter for the same reason. The Sack of Rome was too fresh in everyone's mind.

Farnese leaned forward on his elbows with a tiny smile, fingers meshed. "Carew, now you are my _main_ agent in England. Does it sit well with you?"

Nicholas Carew felt himself as important as Alexander the Great. "Most definitely, Your Holiness! It is an enormous honor for me to serve you in any way you sit fit."

"Some of my orders might be unpleasant. Anyway, they will all be justified by the necessity to restore England back to the flock of Rome. It will be a long-term game."

Carew's eyes blazed. "I shall be blessed to help you purify my homeland."

"I have a plan." The Pope trailed his fingers across his chin. "It will take time for it to come to fruition. Perhaps years, depending upon how lucky we are in eliminating heretics."

"I'll most eagerly destroy your enemies upon my return to London!"

"Shhh!" Farnese created a steeple of his fingers, pressing them to his lips. "Do you know what makes a successful strategy? Patience, calculation, observation, and again patience!"

"I understand. Should I send you codified messages about the happenings in England?"

"Yes. I need to think how to implement my stratagem."

Carew waved this aside impatiently. "Only letters? What else?"

The Pope regarded him forbiddingly. "Rage, rashness, and indiscipline. Even one of these qualities might lead to a blunder. I do appreciate your zeal, but I'm worried about you. You are ruled by strong emotion: urges and drives I cannot control. What if you are discovered?"

Carew clamored, "I'll better die than disappoint you."

Farnese raised a palm for silence. "William Brereton was my competent agent in England. His soul was full of fervor too, but he was skilled at pretense and hiding his true emotions. I loved him as my own son. Unfortunately, William died in vain despite all our efforts to dispose of the witch. Every day I pray that his brave soul finds peace in eternity, for he is surely in heaven. Your execution – God forbid it happens – will be another blow to our cause, perhaps a lethal one."

A short silence ensued when the Pope prayed for Brereton, and so did Carew.

Nicholas Carew respected the dead agent; they had worked together for quite some time. "Brereton used to say that passion subdues reason. Not an uncommon affliction these days, for the lust after that whore led both Kings of England and France astray."

"Indeed. Even François, once a staunch Catholic, was ensorcelled by the harlot."

Carew kept nodding while Farnese spoke about Anne's "transgressions". Truth be told, the Pope's sharp intelligence denied the existence of witchcraft, in spite of his sermons about it being pure evil. Any Supreme Pontiff was not only a churchman, but also a politician who governed the Papal States and interfered with international affairs. Farnese was skilled at swaying people to his point of view, just as he had done with Brereton upon the man's recruitment as his assassin.

"Your Holiness, will you send someone to France in order to rid of the whore?"

"I have enough allies at François' court." The Vicar of Rome pressed his fingertips to his mouth. "Quiet, my son! Your excessive curiosity and impatience might be your downfall."

Carew toyed with the hem of his tunic. "I hope they will send the witch to hell."

Farnese noticed Carew's nervousness, which irritated him a lot. In contrast to him, Brereton had been a calm, smart man who had survived at the Tudor court for several years, having feigned his fealty to King Henry and his trollop. Brereton had played his limited number of cards deftly from first to last, and he could not have predicted that the riots would compel Henry to exile Anne. _Fortunately, I have other agents in England. If Carew fails me, I shall still have them._

"They will," the Pope said with confidence. "France will not be allowed to leave the fold of the Catholic Church. I'll ensure that François' trollop will not be a queen for long."

"Your Holiness, I admire your craft and cunning!"

Farnese thought of Dauphine Catherine de' Medici, the true daughter of the Roman Church. He maintained regular correspondence with her: both official one and secret one through his spies at the Valois court. If only she had given Dauphin Henri as many sons as her body could bear, the kingdom of France would have been under the leadership of the Catholic Pontiff forever, and all the seeds of heresy on French soil would have been purged with fire and sword.

"At least, the Boleyn witch has failed to give François a son."

A diabolic ardor ignited in Carew's orbs. "I would gladly kill both of her daughters."

Farnese inclined his head in his guest's direction, wagging one finger in his face. "Bridle your enthusiasm, my son. You might never attain what we seek because of your emotions."

This dampened Carew's spirits. "I'll do my best to discipline myself."

The Pope rose to his feet and came to his agent from the back, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Our sacred duty is to serve Jesus Christ and spread the true faith across the earth as far as possible. Know this: regardless of the outcome, your soul will be in heaven for your courage."

The Pope's hand slid off his shoulder as he pivoted towards the door and exited.

* * *

 _Happy New Year and Merry Christmas! I hurried to post this chapter before the end of the year. I want to finish this year on a positive note, not on Jane's miscarriage._

 _Please let me know what you think of this chapter. Thank you very much in advance._

 _Anne gave birth to François' first child, and it is a girl. Some readers may be disappointed because most of you wanted Anne to have a son on the first try. However, I do not think that it would have been interesting, and I want Anne to have a unique character arc with regards to her childbearing history. Her quarrel with François widens the rift between them, but ironically it also leads to the king's decision to discard his maîtresse-en-titre – Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, who has an unconventional character arc._

 _Some readers are displeased that François still has mistresses. Even though Anne de Pisseleu was set aside, he still has Claude de Rohan-Gié. Let's look at François' relationship with Anne through the lens of a medieval/Renaissance monarch, and through the prism of logic. François and Anne do not have a marriage based on love at this stage: their union is a political arrangement, and Anne asked him to go on separate paths after their wedding, so he continues living like a free man. At the same time, François does not offend Anne: he is kind and attentive to her, but she pushes him away because of her understandable negative attitude to men and marriage. François realizes the damage Henry caused to Anne, but what can he do apart from being kind to Anne? Should he discard his mistresses if his queen does not want to be with him and refuses to perform her marital duties? Should François pursue her? Or should he dismiss all of his paramours just to please the woman who is cold to him? No king would have done that! Even in the modern setting, no man would have invested his time and emotions in such a marriage unless his wife changed her attitude to him. Moreover, François does not parade his mistresses in front of Anne and the whole court, and if he sleeps with them, it happens in his apartments. I think François does deserve more than Anne's hostility, for he is respectful of her and allowed her to stay in France when she came to him, which was a chivalrous thing to do._

 _That said, I want to make you happy: Anne's attitude to François will change soon. It will not happen in the next chapter, but it will occur quite soon. Anne is not heartless._

 _As usual, I have my characters quote or refer to classics, for example philosophers and ancient artists such as Sophocles and Socrates. They live in the Renaissance era! Sophocles is one of three ancient Greek tragedians whose plays have survived. The most famous tragedies of Sophocles feature Oedipus and Antigone: they are generally known as the Theban plays._

 _Primero is a 16th-century gambling card game, of which the earliest reference dates back to 1526. Well, the characters cannot always play piquet!_

 _Pope Paul III (Allessandro Farnese) is plotting, and he will create many problems for Anne, Henry, and François. All the historical information about the Pope and his pontificate is correct._

 _I shall respond to all the reviews to the previous chapter in January._

 _Happy New Year! Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	20. Chapter 19: Lessons of History

**Chapter 19: Lessons of History**

 ** _June 25, 1537, Royal Palace of Valladolid, Valladolid, Spain_**

"There are traces of fatigue on your face," observed Isabella of Portugal as she entered her royal spouse's private chambers. "You have not slept well for many nights."

"It is insomnia, wife," Carlos V, Holy Roman Emperor, replied as he leaned back in his seat. "These days, sleep eludes me because I'm still feeling rather unwell."

The Habsburg spouses peered at each other for nearly an eternity.

"At least, you are alive, husband." Her expression turned despondent as Isabella thought back to the calamitous events which had transpired as of late.

At the beginning of May, Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, had delivered the wounded Emperor Carlos from France to Valladolid, the current seat of the Spanish court. The injuries, which he had received from French arrows in the Battle of Poitou, had been almost fatal, and Charon, the ferryman of Hades, had started transporting his soul along the Styx. For many weeks, the royal doctors had fought tooth and nail for the emperor's salvation, and there had been a great celebration at court when their sovereign's fever had broken.

The dawn light filtered in through the windows, filling the room with a soft golden glow. Its beam fell on the haggard face of Emperor Carlos with dark circles under his eyes. His pallor was sickening white, and his narrow face looked thinner than ever before. Although he was still relatively young, now Carlos looked older than his real age because of the considerable physical and psychological toll that his French disastrous campaign had had on him.

Nevertheless, Carlos was a handsome man of athletic build and average height. Marred by a protruding jaw, the distinctive mark of a Habsburg, his handsomeness was not perfect but remarkable, his strong features impressive, his deportment imperial. His smart hazel eyes were a shade darker than flaming torches. His appearance held the gentle sadness of a warrior deprived of a victory and simultaneously the jaded cynicism of a crafty ruler who practiced deception in his chicaneries. There was an air of supreme pride befitting a monarch around him.

Isabella stifled a cry of horror as she scrutinized her husband once more. At present, he was so thin that his bones seemed to have pressed into the fabric of his austere tight-fitting, high-collared doublet of black velvet slashed with silver tinsel. His black silk trunk hose accentuated his spindling legs, which had been far more muscled before his departure to France.

"Should I summon the physician?" She came closer, concerned.

He briefly touched the gray velvet cap that hid his short brown hair. "No, _mi amor_. You have been worried for me for so long. Now look after yourself and our children."

She stopped in the middle of the room. "Your wellbeing is my priority, Carlos."

A tiny smile warmed his countenance. "You are a model wife and queen, Isabella. I do not know what I would have done without you." Then his expression transformed into blankness again. "I awoke in the dead of night and looked through my latest correspondence. The attacks of the Ottoman ships on our fleet are so unsettling that I could not fall asleep again."

The empress looked away, contemplating tapestries of biblical stories and lives of the saints. "That is the result of your own mistakes."

His fists clenched into tight balls. "You keep calling my invasion of France _a grave error_! I cannot tolerate your daily reminders of something I seek to cleanse from my mind."

"But you cannot, and you never will."

He inclined his head. "That is true. We lost, and my honor as a general was besmirched."

"What about the King of France's honor? You attacked him!"

He uttered rhetorically, "For the most part, integrity and politics are incongruent."

Her footsteps light and measured, Empress Isabella crossed to his chair. "I must say that I'm not accustomed to seeing the mighty Habsburg monarch so helpless, so pitiable, and, even worse, full of self-pity. Now you resemble the defeated Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus who fled from Gaius Julius Caesar with his tail between his legs after the Battle of Pharsalus."

Emperor Carlos bounced to his feet like a wild caged animal. "Damn the French! I've become the Habsburg Pompeius! I ran away from the battlefield of Poitiers! Or, strictly speaking, my loyal commander, the Duke of Alba, evacuated me because I was severely wounded."

She stiffened, uncertain why her words unsettled him so. "You almost died." She crossed herself, for the thought of his passing was more tormenting than would be that of her own sudden demise. "Each and every wee hour, I thank our gracious Lord that you are alive."

Isabella had spent many anguish-filled days and nights nursing Carlos back to health. She had prayed fervidly for him, shedding lakes of tears and crooning to him about their eternal love and their offspring, until one afternoon he had opened his feverish eyes. When a sense of doom had prevailed all over the Habsburg domains, her voice had guided him back to reality. _Carlos is alive, and I do not care whether he was defeated or not,_ Isabella bemoaned silently.

Pacing to and fro relentlessly, the emperor was frowning like a fiery spirit of exasperation. His thunderous demeanor was matched by the chamber's austere and unusual luxury. Two walls were swathed with Flemish biblical tapestries, which had been delivered from his native Ghent. The decoration on the other walls was a peculiar combination of Moorish, Renaissance, and Gothic elements. Many pieces of massive ebony furniture with inlays of precious stones and gold were tastefully scattered around the room; bone and ivory inlays showed Moorish influence.

Passing by a line of X-shaped walnut chairs, Carlos shrilled, " _The Habsburg Pompeius!_ That is how that damned Valois miscreant calls me! Even when my fate was not yet known in Christendom, and we kept my bad condition secret, he already labeled me so."

After the Battle of Bourges, King François had embarked on an extensive campaign of defaming Emperor Carlos in versatile colorful and memorable epithets. Clément Marot and other poets, patronized by the Valois siblings, had issued pamphlets celebrating the brilliant victory of France and her Protestant allies over the Holy Roman Empire. Carlos was nicknamed _'the most evil Spaniard'_ , _'the most incompetent Habsburg ruler'_ , _'the Flemish devil whose reign crippled Spain'_ , and _'the Habsburg Pompeius'_ , and he was also called a murderer, a liar, a thug, and a broken cur. It was François' retaliation for the earlier aspersion of his own character.

His wife eased herself into a frailero next to a walnut table, where her husband's Book of Hours lay. "King François is merely using the same weapon against you as you applied against him. But the difference is that you calumniated him, while he is defending himself."

Pausing beside the ebony cabinet, Carlos glowered at her from beneath his furrowed brows. "Or perhaps His Grace of Alba's escape plan was a work of genius. That Valois libertine must have commanded men to capture me, just as he took Ferdinand prisoner."

"Ah, Ferdinand." Isabella was fidgeting with her rings, twisting them back and forth on her slim fingers. "He is another victim of your animosity towards François."

He resumed wandering around the chamber. "Contrariwise, my brother supported me. But what has happened to you, _mi vida_? Once you were a pillar of strength for me, helping me through all the difficulties in my life. Nonetheless, now you castigate me time and time again."

Isabella's dispassionate voice cut through the stuffy air. "Drama begins where logic ends. Human beings lose their logic in their vindictiveness." Her voice took on a higher octave. "And you have lost the sight of everything, except for your hatred of François."

She rubbed him the wrong away again. "A wife must always be the greatest strengthener for her husband, in particular if he is a monarch who lost his honor on the battlefield."

Her irritation was growing. "Now you resemble the enraged King of England. According to gossip, the Tudor temper is so volatile that aggressive gesticulations are the least that his courtiers have to behold when their mercurial sovereign erupts his rage, burning them with it."

The emperor halted, looking at her in surprise mingled with hurt. "Now you compare me to that heretical man whom I once called my uncle?! I do not kill women!"

The Holy Roman Empress shot to her feet, and poured the truth into his face. "No, you are not a queen-killer, Carlos. Yet, you are capable of accusing another monarch of murdering your elder sister, while knowing perfectly well that François is totally innocent, and Eleanor died of natural causes." She stilled for a moment, then emphasized, "Your French archrival is many things, but he is the quintessence of chivalry. François neglected poor Eleanor and preferred to be with his paramours, but he would never have harmed her or any other of royal blood."

Carlos looked puzzled like someone who had continuously failed to untie the Gordian knot throughout years. "Isabella, why do you–"

Her voice rose like a shriek on the wind as she interrupted him, "Husband, you find no fault with your behavior. You have conveniently ignored that you have been keeping your own mother, Queen Juana of Castile, locked in the palace in Tordesillas for years. You visit her very rarely and tell the whole world about her madness while knowing that she is not sick." Her voice fell to a whisper. "I've long asked myself how you can do this to the woman who birthed you."

Though shocked, Carlos had the decency to look ashamed. "Isabella, I–"

"Sometimes, rulers must compromise their integrity and even to hurt their loved ones for the greater good of their countries, as they say to themselves. Is that what you want to say?"

"Yes. That is true, wife." His voice was cold.

This time, Isabella started pacing nervously, occasionally glancing at her spouse. "Since 1517, you have been the sovereign of the Kingdom of Aragon and its territories, as well as the Kingdom of Castile and León and its lands. You have power thanks to Queen Juana, Carlos!"

His gaze flicked to a window where rainy clouds were scudding across the summer sky. "It will rain soon, as if the heavens wish to mourn for my mother's misery."

"That must be true!" she cried in a most reproachful tone. "At first, our grandfather, Ferdinand of Aragon, had Aunt Juana confined to her residence in Tordesillas. He invented this horrible lie and spread rumors about her insanity so that he could rule in her stead. Years later, you relocated to Spain from Flanders, and she invested you with power, perhaps in the hope that you would release you, but you did not – instead, you have strengthened the legend of her insanity. Juana's own son and father made her life a life-long night without sunrise."

He acknowledged, "Yes, I've caused her afflictions."

Stopping near the window, Empress Isabella implored him, "Then release her."

"I cannot." There was a ring of finality in his voice. "No one in Spain would ever consent to have a woman with my mother's history as their queen regnant."

She did not resist the urge to take umbrage at his casual admission. "I've served as your regent several times, and you have always been happy with the result."

Emperor Carlos approached his wife. "Isabella, you are my jewel," he effused, clasping her hands in his. "You are the most remarkable woman! Despite our enmity, there is something François and I do agree upon. Female intelligence is a real treasure, and it should be a boon to any husband. Men who have trouble with clever women are sad specimens of manhood."

The empress squeezed his hands in hers, entwining their fingers. "I like what you say – it is so fair and charming. Your rare wit is carrying me to paradise on earth."

Carlos pulled her into his arms. "Then don't berate me and assist me in everything."

Forthwith, she disentangled herself from him. "Will you be kinder to Aunt Juana?"

His expression regained its austerity. "I'll not let her live at court. You should think of Prince Philip and our other children instead of interfering on my mother's behalf."

Isabella stomped over to the other side of the room. "You are a God-fearing man, my dearest spouse. However, you are capable of perpetrating awful things for the sake of power."

"Greatness might be achieved only with sacrifices."

Her voice was thick with bitter disappointment. "At times, I do not recognize the gentle and caring man I married all those years ago. Queen Juana and King François have taken the brunt of your detrimental lust for power. You made your mother your prisoner to rule in her stead. You dreamed of subjugating France to amass more power and wealth, but the Lord stopped you."

"What are you implying?" He settled himself into a nearby ladder-back chair.

She plucked up the courage to pronounce what would enrage him again. "No foreign realm, with their own culture, their traditions, and their legitimate ruling dynasty, is yours to take. I must confess that I'm glad you did not succeed in conquering France. This country suffered enough at the hands of the English invaders during The Hundred Years' War."

"You are defending my enemies! The House of Valois must fall!"

The queen continued coolly, "Your armies plundered and pillaged the French land far and wide while carrying out their unholy work, which their sovereign ordained. How many people lost their loved ones? How many were deprived of their homes, falling into destitution? François will need a lot of money to restore his war-battered realm to economic stability."

"According to the Duke of Alba, the French stole all our wealth from our deserted camps."

"Fair enough!" As her gaze fell to her bosom from where dangled a golden cross adorned with diamonds, her heart compressed into a knot. "Dear God, Carlos! I was told that you did not take prisoners at Arles, but brutally slaughtered fifteen thousand Frenchmen. Your friend, the Duke of Alba, enlightened me that after Ferdinand joined his forces with yours in the defile near the town, you had the opponent encircled and enjoined to destroy them all without sparing anyone. At Tours, your men murdered eight thousand French soldiers because you commanded to kill them all. Alba confided in me that even Ferdinand was surprised with your barbarity."

"And what?" Anger whitened his visage to an ashen color.

"At least, François did not kill every Spanish, Italian, German, and Swiss man who served you. He took prisoners after his victories in Orléans, Poitou, and Bourges."

"He is such a valiant, noble knight!" At this moment, he loathed his French counterpart more than ever equally for his fiasco in France and for his wife's sympathy to the foe.

"King François is not in the wrong – you are." As if to back up her words, the firmament rumbled, and a crack of barely visible black lightning shot across the sky.

His shoulders sagged like those of someone crucified at the altar of his ambition. "Your words sadden me a great deal, Isabella. When have you become so charitable towards the French? Our glorious grandparents, the greatest Catholic monarchs, despised them wholeheartedly."

Isabella admired her husband's martial prowess, but his obsessive hunger for power was daunting. "You have forgotten lessons of history. The legacy of earlier wars includes unfinished business from incomplete or partially implemented peace deals and treaties, some of them being a mere product of fiction to procure a temporary break and then to attack again."

His ire deflating, Carlos felt weak. "I do not yet know what to do. Spain is in a terrible situation, with our treasury empty, the Turks being in Genoa and also blockading our ports."

Outside, the rain had begun in earnest. The firmament darkened with thickening clouds, their massive shadows creeping eerily above the palace. Morning was dawning, but there was not enough light, as though if it were a portentous sign of the approaching Day of Judgement.

His consort glanced at a stunning tapestry depicting the Virgin Mary and the baby Jesus. "Looking at this wall hanging, I imagine Spain as God's child in the Virgin's hands. But will these hands be gentle to our realm? You should not have invaded France, Carlos."

However, the monarch stood his ground firmly. "I had to punish that Valois satyr for my elder sister's unhappiness. I also had to settle scores with him; he remains my mortal foe."

"Eleanor was a sweet, noble-minded, and pious woman. She wrote to me that she had longed for François, but he could not overlook what you did to him and his sons after his surrender to you at Pavia. He could not bring himself to bed her even once after their wedding night. Yet, she loved him! Do you really think that she would have approved of your deeds?"

"Politics is a multifaceted thing not related to love."

Her eyes followed the rivers of raindrops on the panes. "I'm so very afraid for your soul. Is this heavy rain not a mystic sign of nature's mourning for it?!"

Swiveling sharply, Empress Isabella stormed out, tears brimming in her eyes. During their discourse, she had been tenacious and persistent in her attempts to convince her husband of the necessity to steer him from his vengeful path towards the road to peace with France. _I've been checkmated, and now dread has encompassed all that has not happened but might,_ she noted.

§§§

Swearing under his breath, Emperor Carlos rose to his feet. As he stomped over to the window, the pain in his ribcage intensified, grimly reminding him that he was still convalescing. His physician had informed him that he would make his full recovery in the next few months, but that his scars would probably throb in bad weather or if he strained himself excessively.

He gazed out at the rainy gardens. "Isabella!" he pronounced her name in a voice laced with everlasting devotion. "Do not leave me, _mi amor_ … I'll eliminate the strife between us."

The answer was the strong downpour of rain onto the roof and against the windowpanes. The lightning flashed like a serpent of mortality, and, as if in the moment of sudden illumination, Carlos was disturbed by the anticipation of death. Diverting his mind from what he had dismissed as superstition, he admired the park where pines and cypresses watched over the colorful foliage.

"All will be well," the ruler persuaded himself, his forehead pressed to the glass. "Isabella and I have a glorious future ahead." But why did he have an unknown sick presentiment?

* * *

 ** _July 10, 1537, Royal Palace of Valladolid, Valladolid, Spain_**

The Holy Roman Emperor and Empress sat at the heads of a long ebony table; Spanish advisors occupied their respective places. The council room was lit by torches in wall sconces, revealing the beauty of tile mosaics with geometrical patterns reminiscent of textiles.

"The Turks attacked Buda again," grouched Emperor Carlos, reclining in a walnut chair.

Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, enlightened, "The Austrians are currently defending Buda to the best of their ability. However, the other Hungarian forces stationed to the south of Buda experienced a brutal slaughter at the hands of the Ottoman Sultan Suleiman's troops. Their chief general, Wolfgang von Rogendorf, proved to be incompetent and was killed."

"The Turks might annex the whole of Hungary." The ruler's frown was so fierce that it seemed to form a single line above his eyes. "That would be horrible for this country."

Francisco de les Cobos, who was the secretary of State and Comendador for the kingdom of Castile, underlined, "That would be a disaster for the entire Christian world."

Once more, Carlos studied the alarming missive from his sister-in-law, the spouse of Ferdinand von Habsburg. "Queen Anna of Bohemia and Hungary is entreating that we send her fresh, well-equipped forces to hold back the hordes of the heathens."

In 1521, Anna of Bohemia and Hungary had married Ferdinand in Austria. At the time, Ferdinand had governed the House of Habsburg's Austrian lands on behalf of his elder brother. Being the only daughter of King Vladislaus II of Bohemia and Hungary, she was also known as Anna Jagellonica, a member of the Jagiellonian royal dynasty of Poland. After Anna's brother, Louis, had perished in the Battle of Mohács against the Turks in 1526, the thrones of both Bohemia and Hungary had become vacant. Therefore, Ferdinand had claimed both kingdoms and been elected King of Bohemia on the same year, making Anna Queen of Bohemia.

Ferdinand and Anna had a good marriage, just as Carlos and Isabella did. Although their union had been an arranged one, they had grown to love each other, but Ferdinand's eye wandered to pretty women from time to time, unlike his brother's. Nevertheless, Anna was almost constantly pregnant since their wedding, and the couple had many offspring. Like Carlos, Ferdinand adored and respected Anna's intelligence and her formidable strength of will, which set him apart from other men of the time, and which she held close to her heart, loving her husband for that.

"Your Imperial Majesty," Cobos addressed his sovereign. "We cannot do this."

"Damn François!" The emperor crumpled the letter and tossed it on the floor. "If only Ferdinand had not been captured, he would have protected his lands. Now we must pray that his smart wife will be able to raise funds and hire more mercenaries for her army."

The councilors all nodded in unison, seething with hatred for the French king.

"Indeed, we cannot spare any men," Empress Isabella chimed in, her scrutiny focused on her husband. "Six months earlier, the Ottoman fleet launched assaults on our ports – Alicante, Algeciras, Ceuta, Almería, Malaga, Valencia, and Barcelona. We immediately dispatched many war ships to these ports so as to repel the foe, but the Turkish ships are lighter and can attack more quickly than ours. Moreover, the Ottomans carry powerful artillery on board: their cannon and muskets annihilated our initial forces and all the reinforcements which arrived later."

The Spanish ruler briefly touched the tight, high lace collar of his black brown doublet, which made his head seem detached from the body. "The rise of Ottoman naval power commenced with the decline and ultimate fall of the Byzantine Empire. However, the Turks are not unbeatable, and we proved it during the Conquest of Tunis a mere two years ago."

Cobos recalled, "Several years earlier, Hayreddin Barbarossa established a strong naval base in Tunis. He used it for their violent raids in the region, especially on nearby Malta. Yet, we destroyed Barbarossa's fleet, partly thanks to the protection of the Genoese navy."

"Barbarossa is a talented martial man," the Duke of Alba assessed. "Unfortunately, His naval victories have secured Ottoman dominance over the Mediterranean sea. Yet, we made him run away from Tunis, because we summoned troops which were in far greater numbers than his."

Isabella interjected, "As far as I remember, Barbarossa abandoned Tunis well before the arrival of our forces there, sailing away into the Tyrrhenian Sea."

Alba furrowed his brows, and told her, "Exactly, Your Imperial Majesty. But that seaman comprehended the futility of his resistance to our mighty army, so he fled."

As his gaze locked with his spouse's, Carlos commented, "Fernando, my dearest friend, you became a true hero in Tunis. Moreover, you saved my life in France." A smile flittered across his countenance like a ray of sunshine. "That is so admirable and very commendable!"

"Bravo, Your Grace!" Francisco de les Cobos lauded. "You attained the unachievable and rescued our beloved liege lord from the claws of our mortal adversary."

"God bless Your Grace!" Isabella's voice was gentle and friendly. "I'll never repay you back for what you did for my husband, and neither will our empire."

"Thank you so much!" A flush of pride and embarrassment suffused Alba's cheeks. "But I just did my duty to my liege lord, for whom I would eagerly have given my life."

"I do appreciate it," the emperor said sincerely.

Isabella veered her gaze to the Duke of Alba. "I'm astonished that Your Grace succeeded in taking my husband out of the French encirclement and through the territories of France and Navarre back to Spain. You crossed the Pyrenees with my incapacitated Carlos."

"The French had a spy in our camp." The emperor alluded to Ercole d'Este, whom he was itching to punish for betrayal. "But we had our accomplice among the Catholic French nobles, who dislike François' union with the Boleyn whore and his policy of religious tolerance."

Carlos and his subjects snickered. Isabella raised a quizzical brow, but asked nothing.

The monarch glanced at the duke. "However, I agree with what my wife said about our triumph in Tunis. Your Grace, do not allow your success to go to your head and cause your growth to stagnate." Reluctantly, he added, "My overconfidence was our downfall in France."

The Duke of Alba concurred. "We underestimated the French."

Cobos sought to lift the king's spirits by flattering, "Your Imperial Majesty remains the best general in the world. As you always beat your own records, we will crush King François."

"I hope not," Isabella parried. "The invasion of the Valois realm was a mistake."

Alba and Cobos directed their apprehensive scrutiny at the ruler. They were aware of the empress' attitude to their operation in France, as well as of the discord between the royals.

The emperor barely reigned in his temper. "I would rather not speak about it."

"Why not, Carlos?" she deadpanned, her mouth curved in irony. "There are important lessons of history, but you ignored them before the invasion. The English endeavored to subjugate France for longer than a century, but they were eventually ejected from the continent, save for Calais. It was clear from the beginning that the French would fight for their liberty with arms, men, and intelligence at their disposal, and that the fruits of their labors would pay off."

"Perhaps you are right," Carlos acquiesced.

Cobos switched to the topic at hand. "What will Your Imperial Majesty do now?"

The ruler glanced at the duke. "I appoint Your Grace the chief commander in all of my domains. Tomorrow, you will travel south and prepare to break the sea blockades."

Many of the ports had been blockaded after the Turkish fleet had sunk the Imperial one near the southern coast of Spain. Accordingly, foreign trade choked off, and the farmer's markets became a dominant force in the food supply, so at least the agricultural industry bloomed.

The Duke of Alba jumped to his feet and approached the emperor. As he genuflected, he vowed, "I'm honored, my liege! I shall serve you well until my dying day."

"I know, my friend." Carlos patted his shoulder. "Now rise."

"My life belongs to my country and you." Alba returned to his place.

The empress broached the most unnerving subject. "The problem is that the state treasury is almost empty. We funded the expedition to Tunis with the gold and silver we received from the New World after they had been exchanged to money in Genoa." She stilled to gather her thoughts. "Unfortunately, the majority of Genoese fleet was obliterated by Barbarossa's forces during the siege of Genoa, which capitulated and is now occupied by the Muslims."

The emperor finished, "As a result, the Genoese bankers cannot give us anything."

"God save us!" Cobos and Alba crossed themselves. " _The heathens are in Italy!_ "

An agitated Carlos started drumming his fingers against the side of the table. "It is the entire fault of that Valois rat. His alliance with the Ottoman Empire has long been a thorn in my side. François and Suleiman must be still plotting against my family."

Francisco de les Cobos wondered, "Will the Pope condemn the King of France for his alliance with the heretic nations and for his arrangement with the heathens?"

"His Holiness has been silent so far," noted the Duke of Alba.

"That Boleyn witch!" The Habsburg monarch cringed in abhorrence. "She ensorcelled two rulers. She compelled the King of England to break from the flock of Rome, and replaced my aunt, Catherine, on the English throne. Now she must be driving François away from the Vatican, for France will surely become far more tolerant towards the heretics."

Cobos bobbed his head. "Anne Boleyn must indeed be a witch."

"I do not believe in sortilege," contradicted Alba. "As for my opinion about the matter, I think we need to wait and watch your enemy's steps and moves."

"That is the best course of action," Carlos assented.

 _Anne Boleyn is such a controversial woman,_ Isabella of Portugal mused. _Doubtless she is not a whore. If she had been the Tudor ruler's mistress before their marriage, she would have gotten pregnant quickly, just as she did after her marriage first to King Henry and then to King François._ Isabella's sentiments towards Anne Boleyn were conflicted, and she was interested in this notorious lady. While Isabella scorned Anne for her role in the religious reform in England and for Catherine of Aragon's sorrows, she had a grudging respect to the unique woman who had changed England and later assisted the King of France in winning the Franco-Spanish war.

Her response was neutral. "I would rather not judge a person without knowing them."

Her husband was surprised by her oration. "Anne Boleyn is a heretical strumpet who has perpetrated innumerable crimes, and whose soul must be burning in hell. As she is now married to that French blackguard, His Holiness must excommunicate them both."

She shook his head. "Rash conclusions are usually accompanied by ignorance and lack of knowledge. They tend to be a manifest injustice. Nobody knows the Lord's will."

A pause stretched between them. Carlos contemplated Isabella in befuddlement.

Francisco de les Cobos coughed to secure the room's attention. "Your Imperial Majesties, what about King Ferdinand? Should we start negotiations about his release?"

"Of course, do this," the Habsburg king decreed. "If only we could pay my brother's ransom… I hope Anna of Bohemia will collect it." Bitterness colored his intonation.

The ruler's wife pointed out, "Be calm regarding Ferdinand's fate. At present, he is being kept in a comfortable château, so he will not catch some deadly fever. Just negotiate the terms of his release, which will undoubtedly be far harsher than those of François' release."

"The meeting is over," barked Emperor Carlos, glaring at her.

Rising to her feet, Isabella echoed, "Over!" After curtseying, she vacated the room.

§§§

The two Imperial subjects did not dare break the murky silence that followed Isabella's hasty departure. While admiring and respecting the empress, they were more traditional men than their liege lord, thinking that a woman must run her husband's household and bear his children, in particular sons. Despite Isabella's successful governorship, Cobos secretly dreamed that one day, the emperor would appoint him regent of Spain during his frequent, long absences.

"We must fill our coffers," the emperor repeated again and again.

"We will have to raise taxes," Cobos assumed, and Alba nodded.

The ruler snarled, "Those heathens have lost any shame."

"The Muslims have no heart," opined the Duke of Alba. "They are barbaric and perilous to the civilized world, and they have neither shame nor any good feelings."

A low, rough male voice spoke from the doorway. "The heathens are the most dangerous threat to Christianity. It pains me that François de Valois, who was once called His Most Christian Majesty, allied with them. And he even wed that English heretical demoness."

Carlos, Alba, and Cobos turned their heads to Alonso Manrique de Lara y Solís. Clad in red cardinal raiment, their guest was Bishop of Badajoz and of Córdoba, Archbishop of Seville and Inquisitor General of the Spanish Church. His small, harsh eyes, which glittered with steel of inquisitorial torture, showed no pity to those who abjured the Catholic faith; they were framed by black eyebrows that resembled an eagle's wings, and his beard was white and sagging.

The emperor tipped his head. "François has sinned by marrying the Boleyn slut."

With a truculent air about him, the chief inquisitor walked in. "The Valois king and queen are sinners. The Almighty will forgive neither him nor his pagan courtesan."

While Cobos nodded, a shiver ripped down the spines of Carlos and Alba.

While crossing the room, the prelate bowed and affirmed with fanatical zeal, "It is our sacred duty to eradicate the heathens from the face of the earth. To accomplish this, we must deal with our inner troubles and then launch a crusade to re-conquer Constantinople."

This time, everybody was in prefect agreement with the cruel man who sometimes made even Carlos von Habsburg, a devout Catholic, feel uncomfortable in his presence.

§§§

"Carlos," Isabella drawled the name of her beloved. "Our relationship is deteriorating."

Leonor shook her head. "His Imperial Majesty loves you madly, more than the chance to see his next sunset. Soon you will reconcile; there can be problems in any marriage."

Doña Leonor de Mascarenhas was the empress' chief lady-in-waiting. She loved Isabella and was her close friend, having come to Spain from Portugal with her mistress in 1526.

The empress was not optimistic. "Oh, Leonor! You know how stubborn Carlos is. Will he ever realize that there are hollow victories when the cost outweighs the gain? What happened in France is not even a Pyrrhic victory – it is a calamity for us all and for Spain."

When Emperor Carlos returned to his bedchamber, he found his spouse lounging in a high-back, pine chair adorned with the Habsburg coat of arms. Her melancholic expression was accentuated by the somber interior that seemed to have been designed to sadden visitors.

Hoping that they would reconcile, Leonor curtsied and retired.

The walls, swathed in brown brocade and frescoes from the Life of St. Carlos Borromeo, had alternating niches and windows. The ornamentation of columns and niches was splendid, but dark. All of the furniture was ebony, and the carpet a deep maroon. The needlepoint cushions on black-brocaded chairs and coaches must have taken months for a master to embroider so prettily. A large bed, canopied with golden velvet curtains edged with bright yellow tassels.

Isabella stood up, slowly and regally. "I've been waiting for you, _mi amado_."

"I'm glad you have come here, _mi vida_ ," Carlos murmured, mesmerized by her.

The spouses sighed so deeply that their sighs seeped through their entire beings. Outside, the weather was hot, and the air was scented with variegated blossoms in the park. Yet, it was again raining, and the sky was gloomy, just as it had been on the day of their last serious quarrel, as if the summer sunlight wasn't going to grace this part of Spain with its benevolence.

"Our woes are debilitating," she complained.

His brows knitted in a momentary line of consideration. "Can we forget about them just for a moment? We are together, and we will cope, Isabella."

Afraid that her unspoken yearnings had made her misinterpret his words, Isabella gaped at him. After all, their collisions had been frequent since his awakening from fever, to her profound chagrin. But, at this moment, Carlos was smiling at her with spiritual fondness – a smile of such warmth, of such tenderness, and of such devotion which he reserved only for his spouse. Grinning back at him, her heart hummed a melody of marital happiness in her breast.

She spoke breathlessly, "Can you give me your word that you will not undertake another risky foreign expedition? Never again! I cannot bear the thought of losing you."

Carlos could not promise his beloved wife what he would not do. "It will depend on the enemies of our empire. Adversarial politics towards them always demand the immediate taking of stands and the exaggeration of even minor differences so that we can defend ourselves."

"But you will not leave me and our children anytime soon, will you?"

The naked hope in her lovely eyes goaded him into striding over to his queen. He had spent countless nights under the skies of France, on the battlefields and in his military tent longing for the sight of Isabella's smile and her eyes smoky with yearning for him to deny himself the taste of her mouth for another moment. He hugged her and crushed his lips into hers.

As they parted, Carlos eyed his consort. Isabella of Portugal, Holy Roman Empress, was lovelier than any of the women who had caught his eye throughout his bachelorhood.

Tall, shapely, and leggy, the mature Isabella was still an exquisitely beautiful nymph, with golden hair rippling down to her shoulders, almond-shaped eyes of cerulean azure shadowed by long, light eyelashes, a rose-bud mouth, a retroussé nose, and a well-formed, determined chin that was not protruding, unlike her husband's. Her flawless skin was porcelain, save the blush that spread over her cheekbones thanks to her growing desire for her spouse.

In 1521, Carlos had become betrothed to Mary Tudor, who had been King Henry's legitimate daughter back then, and who had been sixteen years younger. The Italian War of 1521-26 had caused his serious financial hardship, and he had desperately needed Isabella's huge dowry to refill the Spanish state coffers. The emperor had called off his English engagement; he had also needed legitimate heirs, having been unable to wait for his young bride to grow up.

When Carlos had first seen the young Isabella in Seville in January 1526, her ethereal loveliness had taken his breath away, and his heart had soared. Their union had originally been a political one, but only for several months. The generous Hymenaeus, the Greek god of marriage ceremonies, had blessed the couple with deep and ardent mutual devotion. Since their wedding, his soul belonged to his wife, and Carlos never strayed from the marriage bed, despite his frequent absences in Spain, as he journeyed through the vast territories of the Holy Roman Empire.

Carlos whispered against her lips, "You are the Goddess of beauty and love."

Isabella stroked his cheek. "Husband, you are not a romantic. Years ago, you approached our relationship from a business perspective, knowing that you had to plan for the future of Spain and the Habsburg line. But when you speak such sincere and poetic things on rare occasions, there is no charm equal to the tenderness of your heart that is beating for me."

The monarch caressed the skin of her neck that was largely hidden by the high lace collar of her gray and black damask gown worked with gold. It had split hanging sleeves trimmed in bows with single loops and metal aiglets. The ample skirt showed an embroidered kirtle beneath, and the bodice did not open in the front, unlike in French and Italian fashions. Today, Isabella's hair was elaborately dressed and uncovered, with golden threads woven throughout it.

Having grown up in Flanders, without his mother's love, Carlos was not a tender man, although he was generally even-tempered and rational. Therefore, he had not known how to court and woo a woman, and there had been a void in his life crying to be filled by a well-bred woman of benign disposition. Carlos had never been a philanderer, but he had been interested in women and had kept several mistresses long ago, although most of his amours had been occasional.

Once Carlos had believed that the only purpose of matrimony was rebirth of the individual in his descendants. However, Isabella had proved to him that the true value of marriage was love. The natural tranquillity of her sweet disposition could cool off the heated surface of his power-hungry heart, although the flame of ambition would always burn in it. But when Carlos was with his wife, his soul was in harmony with all the universe, not in the power of demons of discord.

"We need candles," Isabella opined, enjoying the feel of his strong arms around her.

His blood thickened in his veins. "I do not think so, _mi amor_."

The emperor's bedroom was now bathed in semi-darkness, with only an occasional light seeping inside from torches, which were burning in the antechamber.

Carlos admired her perfect face that now looked vulnerable in their repose in contrast to her previous headstrongness. When Titian had painted _'The Portrait of Carlos V with a dog_ ' in 1533, he had called the empress an artistic work of nature, or a natural work of art. His queen was so very worthy of being worshiped by him thanks to her excellent qualities and their immortal devotion. _I'm a blessed man that Isabella is my wife. She is so beautiful in her mature bloom._

"Isabella," the emperor commenced as he deepened their embrace. "I love you with all my heart. I've been in love with you practically from the moment I laid my eyes upon you during our first meeting in Seville. You are the love of my life and my most precious possession."

A scintillating glow spread across her visage. "Carlos, you are everything to me! You are my husband and king, my light and darkness, my exaltation and pain. I think I've loved you forever, even before meeting you. I remember how I feared that you would never reciprocate my affection, but it was long ago… And I was so happy when you confessed to loving me on the day when I announced my pregnancy with Philip. Whatever you do, I shall always adore you."

"Sweetheart, without you, my life will lose its purpose."

A half laugh, half sob erupted from her as she flung her arms around his neck. "I cannot imagine myself without you, and I need you to always be at my side."

Desperate and famished, their mouths met in a vortex of hot passion. Carlos had kissed his wife before numerous times and in many different ways. Nonetheless, this time, the touch of his salacious, yet tender, lips against hers was the sweetest of all kisses he had ever lavished upon her, more heavenly than the ambrosia drank by the Greek Olympians. As Carlos carried Isabella to his bed, their hearts pulsated with divine relief at being together, and the alliance of all their senses and souls was then exercised in their most intimate, ravishing lovemaking.

§§§

Having left her husband asleep in his bed, Isabella of Portugal strolled through the elegant gallery with elliptical arches. Her footsteps marked her nearness to the decision she had just made.

Perturbed beyond measure, the empress struggled to appear outwardly calm. Today, the grandeur of moderate flamboyance did not impress her spirit. The royal residence in Valladolid had been built by Francisco de les Cobos, who was fond of the Italian Renaissance, unlike most Spanish who preferred unostentatious splendor. The walls were adorned with golden medallions with allegorical depictions of mythological characters, as well as paintings and statues.

Passing by the royal chapel and the state rooms, she darted out of the palace and into a stunning, Italianate-styled courtyard. The pavement glittered with rain from earlier in the day, and an ornate fountain babbled, as if these were erupting notes of encouragement to her to proceed to her goal. The place had been designed by Luis de Vega, a royal architect at court.

"Your Grace!" Isabella crossed the courtyard. "I was told that you are here."

The Duke of Alba swept a low bow to her. "How can I serve Your Imperial Majesty?"

For a short time, she dithered, her hand fidgeting with a sheet of paper in her hand. Her gaze embraced the grand façade, which had three storeys and was dominated by two high towers at both ends. As confidence inundated her, she handed the parchment to the duke.

"What is it?" He scrutinized the missive stamped with Isabella's personal seal.

"Send it to Queen Anne of France," Isabella requested flatly. "Make sure that my husband knows nothing about it. Otherwise, this letter will not reach its intended recipient."

He was puzzled. "If I may ask, why do you need it? She is our enemy!"

"No, she is not. Although she was responsible for my Aunt Catherine's misfortunes, she has done nothing wrong to Spain, Carlos, and me. Now only she can aid us to calm the storm."

"I'm afraid I need clarification." Alba's bewilderment was too profound.

The empress glanced in the direction of the garden full of trees, fountains, flowerbeds, and sculptures. "Carlos has lost sight of everything, save his animosity towards King François and the House of Valois. It will beget more hatred and culminate in a never-ending cycle. As soon as they recover from their losses, either Carlos or François will launch a new offensive." Shifting her gaze back to him, she stressed, "This must be stopped before it is too late."

The Duke of Alba nodded in comprehension. "Indeed, history shows that violence always begets more violence. And we must learn hard lessons from God's guidance."

"How will another war end? The economic and social consequences for our countries are harrowing. Neither the death of Carlos nor that of François will bring stability to Christendom. And I do not want my son, Prince Philip, to be a mortal foe of Dauphin Henri."

"Why do you wish to contact Anne Boleyn? Do you recognize her as royalty?"

"Without a shadow of a doubt, she is the Queen of France. I did not acknowledge her as Queen of England because King Henry was married to my departed aunt. But she had a Catholic wedding to King François, despite being a Protestant." She emitted a sigh. "There are important things I must tell _Queen_ Anne, and maybe she will listen. I would have written to François or his sister, Marguerite of Navarre, but neither of them will respond to me, for they despise us."

"I'll send it," the Duke of Alba consented after a moment's hesitation. "Be at ease, Your Imperial Majesty. The emperor will know nothing. And perhaps it will lead us to peace."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Her smile was so bewitching that it charmed every man.

As he bowed to her, Isabella strolled away, her heart lighter than it had been in months. The evening twilight was blanketing the buildings. All of a sudden, the firmament cleared, as if a sponge had wiped out the episode of something wretched, and she construed it as a good omen.

Entering the palace, the empress emerged in the room, where the dome was painted with pairs of satyrs, holding medallions representing the four elements: earth, water, air, and fire. France's earth had been sodden with the blood of the fallen French heroes, and at present, Spain was going through the incarcerating fires of punishment for the invasion. Isabella prayed that Anne Boleyn and she would pour water onto the hatred between their nations.

* * *

 _Hello, my dear readers! I hope that the new 2020 has started well for you all!_

 _We finished the previous year on a positive note when Anne gave birth to her daughter with François._ _This chapter is devoted to Emperor Carlos and his wife, Empress Isabella. Please, let me know what you think about this chapter and the characters. Thank you very much in advance. I need inspiration!_

 _The Holy Roman Emperor was seriously wounded in France. His friend and general, the Duke of Alba, evacuated him from the battlefield of Poitou, where the Imperial troops were defeated by the French and their Protestant allies. Those who remember this story well may remember this episode. François had a spy in the Imperial camp (Ercole d'Este, Duke of Ferrara), while Carlos had his own spy in the French camp, as the emperor says to his advisors. The Imperial spy aided the Duke of Alba to take an injured Carlos out of France to Spain. Any thoughts who he can be?_

 _I read a great deal about Emperor Charles/Carlos and his wife, Isabella of Portugal. I must say that despite my dislike of Charles, I'm very fond of his empress and of their love story. Carlos was one of the few monarchs who seems to have been faithful to his spouse during their marriage because he loved her wholeheartedly. If in history Carlos had had any dalliances, we do not know anything about them. I think that he was faithful to Isabella, who was perhaps his only weakness. After her death, Carlos was grief-stricken and never remarried, which proves the depth of his feelings for her._

 _I enjoyed writing Isabella's marriage to Carlos in this chapter. I attempted to reflect the great love they have for each other. They will not be the main characters in this AU, but they will appear from time to time. In this AU, there are two cornerstones in their relationship: the imprisonment of Queen Juana, for Isabella wants her husband to liberate his mother, and the emperor's insatiable lust for power, which leads to his war-mongering tendencies and various invasions, like the recent Imperial invasion of France. A gentle, smart, and noble-minded woman such as Isabella cannot approve of Carlos' insane desire to subjugate France and to depose the House of Valois, and this creates significant tension between them._

 _Isabella will play an important role in this story. Ferdinand, the emperor's brother, is imprisoned in France, although he is treated well, unlike François' captivity in Spain._

 _Frailero is a Spanish Renaissance armchair that had a leather seat and a leather back stretched between plain wooden members and having a broad front stretcher. Spanish fashions described in this chapter are historically correct; they were not as frivolous and lavish as French and Italian fashions of the era were._

 _It seems to me that I've now responded to all reviews to chapters 17 and 18. If I forgot to answer to someone, then it was not done intentionally._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	21. Chapter 20: Turn of the Tide

**Chapter 20: Turn of the Tide**

 ** _July 16, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France_**

Queen Anne stood near the high and arched strained-glass window. The sun blazed down from a cloudless sky, and the myriad sunbeams danced through the landscaped gardens laid out in Italianate style, burnishing the greens and the varicolored blossoms with splinters of gold.

A week earlier, the Valois court had arrived in the capital of France. The king and queen were as distant as ever: they avoided one another, having met only during the banquet in honor of Princess Louise's birth and having occasionally seen each other during the court's progress from Picardy to Paris. Everyone had noted that the royal couple were growing more morose as the time went by; the absence of Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly was a sensation as well.

"You should see your husband, Anne," Mary Stafford admonished.

Her younger sister turned to her. "Sister, it is all so difficult. Even my gratitude to King François for giving me refuge in France and for marrying me is complicated."

Mary's eyes revealed her wisdom. "You are no longer a girl, Annie. You must know that gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for the present, and creates a vision for tomorrow. What you feel for His Majesty might unlock the fullness of your life."

"But I…" The queen's voice faltered.

"What, sister? Are you confused as to your sentiments towards King François?"

Anne gazed out and studied the castle's surroundings. In some places, the River Seine stretched unhindered from shore to shore; in others, it wended its way through a maze of small islands. "Indeed, I do not know how to approach our matrimony."

"You need to become closer to His Majesty."

The queen looked out. A bank of clouds concealed the sun, and the colors in the park now seemed dull, as if imploring to be rekindled. At this moment, she felt cold and dead inside, and a pang of loneliness speared into her very soul, so sharp that she could almost taste the blood from the wound in her mouth. _I want to see François… My husband… This word still sounds foreign to me, but at least, I can now pronounce it in my mind,_ Anne observed silently.

The king's wife heard her sister's voice like it was someone else's from far away. "The reason that the Almighty gave us the emotion of loneliness is so that we must know we were designed to need a connection with Him, our loved ones, and ourselves."

Pivoting to her, Anne requested, "Help me change my clothes. I'll visit the king."

Mary stood up. "Sister, it is the right decision."

"I've written to our mother," Anne notified. "I want her to come to France."

Her sister was overjoyed. "We both need her a lot!"

"Soon you and I will go to Saint-Germain-en-Laye to visit our children."

At the queen's behest, the young Edward and Annie Stafford had joined the household of Princess Louise de Valois, which had been established at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

"Thank you, Anne. I miss them so!"

The queen garnered her courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at her vitals since their reunion. "Mary, I've not always been a good sister to you. Have you truly forgiven me for banishing you from court after your wedding to Sir William Stafford?"

A smile blossomed on Mary's features. "Yes, I have." It then crystallized into the hatred that was always simmering beneath her skin. "I do not blame you for that. You were forced to expel me by King Henry and our treacherous father, who abandoned all of his children."

"I would rather not talk about them now, Mary."

Bobbing her head, Mary enthused, "Oh, Anne! I love you!"

"I love you, too, Mary!" The queen enveloped her sister into her arms.

Mary returned the hug. "We are together, and that is all that matters."

In a frenzy of happiness, the Boleyn girls stood locked in their tight embrace. It was the connection of the two sisters whose filial bonds were solid and strong. Of two persons lost in a cruel world in which they had only each other to understand the pain that life had dealt them.

§§§

Queen Anne summoned her two ladies – Jeanne d'Angoulême and Adrienne de Cosse. They brought a fashionable gown of cloth of silver, studded with precious stones, and having open, loose, hanging sleeves trimmed with golden lace. Mary prepared a stomacher of black brocade embroidered with threads of Venetian silver, as well as a stunning girdle of diamonds.

"Anne, you will be like a silver nymph!" Mary Stafford predicted.

"Especially with this tiara," Jeanne d'Angoulême underlined. She was holding something wrapped in a cloth of gold. "The king asked me to give this gift to Your Majesty."

Mary looked more joyful than her sister. "How amazing! Anne, you love gifts!"

"Show me." Though outwardly neutral, Anne's curiosity peaked.

As her ladies unwrapped the object, they all peered at it in fascinated astonishment. It was a pearl and diamond tiara of extraordinary sumptuousness. The piece of jewelry was of foliate scroll design, surmounted with twenty drop-shaped pearls, each in a mount embellished with rose and white diamonds, with the massive button-shaped pearl at the center of a cluster motif. Jeanne informed that the tiara had been made in the early 15th century in Milan for Valentina Visconti, Duchess d'Orléans, who was the King of France's ancestress on paternal side.

"What a fabulous item!" Mary effused. "This is such an expensive thing!"

Jeanne d'Angoulême elucidated, "It attests to His Majesty's Italian ancestry and, hence, is precious to him. He took it from the Milanese crown jewels in 1515, after the brief conquest of Milan, which was unfortunately lost later." She felt sentimental about the matter, for she was an illegitimate half-sister of the Valois siblings, so the three of them had common ancestors.

Adrienne de Cosse emphasized, "Family gifts of such importance always have a special meaning. They should become keepsakes that are cherished forever."

The queen glanced between Adrienne and Jeanne, understanding why they had said that. They both wanted her to appreciate their sovereign's gift and to soften her attitude to him. All of her ladies, in particular Jeanne, disapproved of Anne's alienation from the monarch.

The two women and Mary Stafford traded glances of solidarity.

"You must thank the king," Mary insisted. "Heartily."

The Queen of France felt like a maid punished for her lack of decorum. A faint trace of embarrassment suffused her visage. "I'll do this. Maybe it is a time of togetherness."

Mary lifted her eyes to the ceiling adorned with biblical frescoes. "Thanks be to God."

At first, they aided Anne to put on a farthingale and underskirt under the gown. As their hands worked on her ensemble, her head was spinning from the amount of time the standard ritual was taking. Normally, she enjoyed the excitement of such occasions and liked dressing up in the most fashionable, extravagant clothes. Nevertheless, now her agitation was too violent to contain it, but Anne forced it to subside into calm determination to see her husband.

As her sister placed the tiara upon her head, Anne stared at her own reflection in a looking glass. With her hair streaming down her shoulders and back in a dark river, Anne was the perfect image of a mystical primordial goddess of earth silvered with the pristine moonlight.

To her utter surprise, Anne wanted the monarch to be bewitched by her today. She had seen how he admired other pretty women, and now she craved to be the object of his adoration for the first time since their wedding. _I hope François will like me in this raiment. How strange my feelings are… I'll speak to him in an affable manner, for he deserves my friendship._

"Brilliant!" Mary's smile was wide and infectious; the others smiled as well.

A moment later, Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, walked in. Nearing the queen and her ladies, she stated, "Fashion is about dressing according to what is popular at court. Style is more about being yourself, and Your Majesty's personal style is just unparalleled."

"Exotic and enthralling," Mary defined it. Everyone dipped their heads.

Smiling at them, the queen swiveled towards the windows. She saw the crest of the sun peaking over the sky's horizon, and the clouds were rapidly vanishing. A deep blue flooded across the sky, as if foreshadowing a positive turn in her relationship with her spouse.

§§§

Queen Anne sauntered through the maze of hallways, followed by Jeanne d'Angoulême and Adrienne de Cosse. Most of the walls were swathed with Flemish tapestries, as well as shields, trophies, and weaponry. In some places, the chambers and corridors resembled an ancient fortress with their austere appearance enhanced by the bare walls of stone and low archways.

"I do not like this place," Adrienne complained.

Jeanne concurred. "I, too, would prefer to relocate somewhere else."

"I've never been here before," Anne articulated. "I like Château de Fontainebleau the most. But His Majesty is going to convene the Parliament of Paris, and to host meetings with foreign ambassadors, which is why he chose this traditional venue for such occasions."

Much to the displeasure of his courtiers, King François had moved his court to this palace.

The Palais de la Cité was the headquarters of the French treasury, judicial system, and the Parliament of Paris, although it had been a royal residence between the 6th and the 14th centuries. Yet, the French rulers still visited the palace to preside over special ceremonies in the Grand'Salle and sessions of the Parlement of Paris. From time to time, kings returned here to display for the veneration of the court the sacred relics that King Louis IX of France, known as Saint Louis, had acquired in 1238 from the governor of Constantinople, at Sainte-Chapelle.

The queen and her ladies entered the large, splendidly decorated assembly hall. It was the famous Grand' Salle, which had been constructed by King Philippe IV of France – called 'the Fair' – at the beginning of the 14th century. The chamber's double nave was covered with a high arched wooden roof, and a row of eight columns in the center supported its framework.

Anne's gaze lingered on the polychrome statues of the Capetian and Valois kings, which were placed upon the pillars and the columns. "All here is steeped in history. France's rich history has now overwhelmed me, and I almost wish for the time to be turned back."

Jeanne agreed, "I, too, feel as if I were transported back in time." Adrienne nodded.

They paused near a long black marble table, where nobles and knights seated at feasts and during meetings of military high courts and other official events.

The queen recollected, "Here nobility used to take oaths of fealty to their liege lords."

Jeanne pointed out on purpose, "This time, all the nobles of the French realm will gather here to give their oath of fealty to their sovereign and _their new queen_."

"That would be such an important occasion," Adrienne commented.

A torrent of gratitude to her husband deluged Anne. "I must thank His Majesty for taking these steps to ensure that I become a crowned queen acknowledged by all of our subjects."

As the queen's confidante, Jeanne opined, "Your husband wants you, Madame, to be safe and sound. To a man, this means that he wishes to have you at his side."

However, the queen gainsaid, "His Majesty wants our baby girl to be acknowledged as a legitimate Valois princess. He also needs to ascertain my acceptance as his wife in order to assuage the discontent among Catholic nobles and to guarantee his own security."

"Oh, Madame," Jeanne groaned. "You do not know our king, my brother, well."

Before they quitted the chamber, Anne cast a last glance at the statue of King François on one of the pillars. At this moment, she exuded a wistfulness over the presence of a strong man in her life. She masked it with a brooding expression that could be interpreted as boredom.

Nearing the ruler's quarters, the queen commanded, "You are both dismissed, ladies."

Jeanne and Adrienne curtsied to the queen and hastened away.

§§§

The sentinels near the King of France's apartments bowed to their sovereign's spouse. They hesitated to allow her entrance, but her authoritative look demanded that they obey her.

"Do not announce anything," Anne told them as she opened the door.

Her heart fluttering in a rush of excitement, the queen entered. As she glided across the antechamber, her thoughts were upon François to such a baffling degree that she could not imagine spending the rest of the day without him. She slipped into the royal bedchamber and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the semidarkness caused by the closed shutters despite the daytime.

Anne stopped in her tracks. "Not alone…"

King François was playing chess with a lovely woman. Her gaze detoured to a big bed with a canopy of golden, blue, and white silk – the Valois colors – and a carved mahogany headboard like an altarpiece. _At least, the bed sheets are not rumpled,_ Anne remarked to herself.

The queen recognized the nymph, for she had seen her at court before. She was Claude de Rohan-Gié, Countess de Thoury, who was about ten years younger than the queen. Once Anne herself had captivated King Henry and driven him from the aging Catherine of Aragon. The hatchet of irony struck Anne: now she felt the same anguish and humiliation that Catherine had experienced while Henry had paraded Anne in front of the Tudor court, with the only difference that François was far more discreet. _Is it God's equitable retribution for my old sins?_

Would Claude de Rohan-Gié bewitch François so completely that he would be willing to annul his marriage to his third wife, just as Anne herself had done to Henry? Fright encompassed Anne – the fear to which she had deliberately closed her eyes, despite her knowledge of François' amours. The thought that the ruler could discard her tormented her, scratching at the edges of her mind. This feeling was a novelty, for she had not feared to lose François before.

Rationality overtook Anne. _François will not bastardize our daughter. He is a womanizer, but he is not a bad father._ Years ago, she had witnessed the monarch's tenderness towards his small children with Queen Claude. François absolutely adored their baby girl, Princess Louise, as if he had never wished her to be a son, and this endeared his wife to him.

The royal mistress moaned, snapping Anne out of her reverie. "François!"

"Yes," the king rasped.

Claude's next words surprised the queen. "Why do we _play chess or cards_ when I come to you? I want us to _do something else_. Am I your friend or a lover?" She was confused as to why the king had summoned her to his quarters today, but was not intimate with her.

François averted his scrutiny. "I don't want it."

"Why?" Claude gaped at him.

He stared at the chessboard. "I've taken nearly all of your pieces. I'm winning."

Veering her gaze towards the door, the mistress gawked. "Your Majesty!"

The monarch glanced in the same direction. "Anne!"

"What, husband of mine?" jeered his wife, odd anger simmering in her veins.

The peculiar tonality of her raging sensations was stemming from her jealousy of François, which welled up in Anne, leading to her verbal rebellion. She was on the brink of causing an outrageous scandal straight away. Yet, her own words, spoken to Henry after she had seen Jane Seymour on his lap echoed through her skull like the funereal bell in the churchyard.

 _Just when my belly is doing its business, I find you wenching with Mistress Seymour!_

On that horrible day, Anne had lost her son, which had doomed her first marriage. Now Anne was not pregnant, and she was no longer Henry's wife. François was not kissing his mistress. Yet, the vision of François with another woman smashed her world into pieces again.

"Anne!" François reflexively extended his arms to his consort. "Wait!"

The queen jeered, "I've interrupted Your Majesty's rendezvous."

"I beseech you not to hate me, my queen." Claude didn't possess the impertinence, temerity, and waspishness which Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly had in abundance.

Anne's lips thinned. "You are free to please our king whenever and however he wishes."

The queen's countenance remained impenetrable, as if whittled out of a chunk of wood. Something flickered in her eyes as Anne sank into an enticing curtsey. She exited with a measured gait and a jeering tilt of her head, as if she were performing some dramatic episode on the scene. If she had swiveled, she would have seen the sheer despair in her husband's eyes.

"I need only her!" Ropes of unbearable heartache manacled François' entire world. Jerking to his feet, the king darted out of the room with a cry, "Anne!"

Forgotten, his mistress sat at the table, tears brimming in her eyes.

The earnest plea in the ruler's voice sounded like the entreaty of a dying warrior to God for salvation. The king was calling to Anne as if the edifice of his life would crumble without her.

"You no longer need me, François." Claude's soliloquy was tinctured with sorrow.

§§§

Lost in an opium-like trance, Queen Anne wandered around the gloomy hallways.

A male name tumbled from her lips like an invocation for help, "François…"

Passing by a group of astonished guards, she briefly paused. When one of them strode to her and said something to her, she simply fled into the adjacent hallway.

 _I've seen François with his mistress, just as it happened to Henry._ This sounded through her head time and time again, tormenting her like the notes of shrill, discordant music. But her inner voice corrected her: _François was not kissing her. But he was not alone when I came._

Blindly entering another chamber, Anne suddenly stumbled into Françoise de Foix. The queen stepped back and fumbled for support, gripping the other woman's hand.

"Your Majesty, what has happened?" Françoise's voice was worried.

"Nothing." Anne darted away like a minnow before the shark.

"Madame!" Françoise called with a hint of trepidation.

A moment later, the monarch ran past the countess like a streak of lightening. He paused at the intersection of two corridors, wildly looking around for signs of his wife.

"She went there!" Françoise pointed in the direction of the Grand' Salle.

The king nodded his thanks. "You are my true friend."

"I'm, and will always be," she murmured with a smile. "Find her!"

François vanished into the arched passage that led to the opposite part of the palace.

His former mistress heard him roar, "Anne!"

The Countess de Chateaubriand smiled to herself, her tears drying. _François has fallen in love with his spouse! For the first time in his life, he has found his match and equal in Queen Anne_. She was still devoted to the King of France, and she always would be, but she wanted him to find personal contentment. Now François was in love as impulsively as the veriest boy!

§§§

As his shrieks reverberated through the palace, Anne darted through the corridor, as if her essence were on fire. She scuttled through the Grand' Salle and soon came to a stairs that ascended upward in what looked like an austere medieval tower. Paying no heed to the bewildered sentinels, Anne rushed up the staircase, as if the sword of Damocles were hanging over her.

"Anne!" François slowed as he arrived in the main hall. "Where are you?"

A guard apprised, "Her Majesty went to the Tour de l'Horloge."

The Tour de l'Horloge was the Clock Tower, at the top of which was a bell, which was rung to announce important events in the life of the French royal family.

Immediately, the ruler hastened out of the chamber. His breathing labored from the chase, he sprinted down another hallway, the carpeted floor almost squelching under his boots. Without Anne, the opaque winter night would reign in his inner realm until Doomsday.

François mounted the same staircase Anne had used a few minutes ago. Emerging in the Clock Tower that had been constructed by Jean le Bon in 1350, he examined his surroundings, listening for the slightest sound. He was relieved that, at least, his spouse had not gone to the Tour de César and the Tour d'Argent, where the offices of the clerks of the court were located.

"Anne, come to me!" he implored. "I know you are here!"

In a handful of heartbeats, like the play of shadows ornamenting an otherwise somber room, the stillness augmented and distinguished light steps, proving his consort's presence.

"Wife!" François whispered, his tone pleading in the extreme. "Please!"

Anne emerged from the corner like the vision of a fantastic substance through the fog. Two brown pools were hollow, as though the fire of hurt had incinerated them into ashes. They appeared ancient – eyes that had seen everything on the sinful earth. Her silver-clad figure looked as if haloed in moonlight, matching her deathly pallor, set off by Anne's long, raven hair.

"What does Your Majesty wish?" Her voice was vibrating with grief.

"I did not sleep with her." His voice – strained, contrite, and determined at once – sounded as if his vocal chords were rubbing against sandpaper. "And have not done so for a few weeks."

It was the truth: François had been faithful to Anne throughout the past month. Despite his frequent communication with Claude de Rohan-Gié, he had last touched her over three weeks earlier. After Anne de Pisseleu's banishment, the monarch had plunged into a whirl of dissipation with Claude and a few others, but the demons of lust had quickly relinquished their hold over him. Now, if desire awakened in him, guilt cascaded down onto him like an avalanche at the thought of betraying his wife, so he had abstained from intimacies with Claude and anyone else.

"Really?" Distrust was etched into the curve of her cheek.

Candor poured out of him like pure water, uncontaminated by the filth of life. "I'm yearning to be with you, Anne. My life… I do not enjoy it without you. I shall discard all of my mistresses. I was with them only because you treated me like your enemy."

Anne improvised, "Oh, heavens! What can I contrive to help the finest knight?"

Closing the gap between them, the king grabbed her into his arms. The queen melted into his embrace, her strength ebbing and a shower of tears deluging his doublet of gray brocade.

"I cannot breathe, sire." He loosened his hold a bit.

"No one – only you," François mumbled into her hair, and then moved his face to hers. "There will be only you in my life from now on. Just do not push me away!"

Moments ticked as successive waves of anguish swept over them. The need for healing overpowered them, and his mouth captured hers in a kiss of innate tenderness, as if searching for atonement from this simple contact. Her lips parted instinctively, and he delved his tongue inside.

Abruptly, Anne broke the kiss. "Not after you were with Mademoiselle de Rohan-Gié."

"I told you that I hadn't touched her. I'll set aside my _former_ paramours." Reluctantly, he let go off her. "I have no lovers now, although I have female friends. Claude is a friend now."

The poisoned arrow of her old, deep-seated hurt worked its way to the surface. "Henry robbed me of my previous pleasure in passionate relations." Her voice grew elemental.

"However, you are inwardly alive."

She drifted away from him, a picture of a sad and exotic dryad from a magical forest. "My capacity for loving died with the knowledge of love's price – death."

As the queen paused near the door, they stared at each other. His amber eyes reflected his enchantment with her, while her dark caverns were limpid with drops of salty liquid. Now her face seemed touched by moonlight as streaks of tears threaded their way down her cheeks.

"Do not say that." He glanced at her with terrified beseeching.

A vulnerable François evoked in Anne a sense of closeness to him. "A cursed woman such as I cannot feel anything," she bemoaned as she beheld him with acute fascination.

"You can!" The king stepped to her, but he did not touch her.

His soul thinned at his spouse's rejection, and it was now something akin to a skeleton wrapped in a blanket of sinew and skin. That all-encompassing passion for her was million times more powerful than all of his feelings combined for all of the women he had known and bedded. It showed him that he would feel the renewed sense of life's spaciousness only if his spouse reciprocated his sentiments. _If only Anne could give me hope,_ his heart wept.

"No, I cannot! Life is meant to be savored, but not in my case. At least, we will always have our daughter and some good, comfortable things to sweeten it a little."

"Anne, our marriage can prove all we have dreamed of. Have faith!"

A smile gilded her visage. "Thank you for the gift; I shall treasure it."

His gaze flew to the tiara on her head. "It looks perfect on you."

 _What is François encouraging me to do?_ Their conversation snared her into confusion. A small part of her hankered to cover the barren landscape of her existence with the silver-woven scarf of their common dreams. But in the gilded frames of her possible future, Anne saw dim old pictures – Henry with his infidelities, his obsession with sons, his lies, and his cruelty.

"It will be as God wills it. Don't forget that you also promised me vengeance." She had no idea that her mention of his promised revenge disconcerted him a great deal.

Anne swept out of the room like a nymph, fiercely serious and yet exceedingly feminine.

François was cognizant of the seemingly unsurmountable odds against him in the battle for Anne's affection. If she never reciprocated his feelings, his life, with its sorrows, hopes, and joys, would be like a desolate moor, so he pondered his best course of action.

§§§

The sun had completed its voyage to the underworld, and purple shadows blanketed the fortress. In the darkness, the River Seine resembled an endless funeral procession swathed in black. Torches were lit within the compound, and the hallways were thronged with men of rank and nobles, who engaged in lively discourses after the day in their offices.

King François was not among them. In his bedroom, he sat in a very old, high-back ebony armchair, which had once belonged to Philippe VI, the first Valois King. Staring at the Valois coat of arms that hung over the galleried marble door to his apartments, his expression was absent-minded. A goblet of wine was clasped between both hands as he tilted it back and forth.

Thoughts of Anne carried him away, so his sister's footfall didn't reach his ear.

The Queen of Navarre began, "I've heard interesting rumors about you and Anne."

The king's gaze flicked to her. "My wife and I had a dramatic talk tonight."

Stopping beside his chair, she touched her brother's forearm. "François, stay committed to Anne. You adore your queen, so love her through thick and thin."

His face was almost comical as the spellbinding realization struck François like Cupid's dart. His heart thumped an exhilarated rhythm, as if it craved to drown out the noises of the universe to the exclusion of the name 'Anne', which tumbled from his lips at this moment.

 _I really do love Anne Boleyn,_ surmised the king. _Now Anne de Valois._ _I fell for her a while ago_. His political union had transformed into something more meaningful to him. During the war when they had saved each other, he had fathomed that without his spouse, the world would be a bottomless void. However, he had not seen that he had walked towards the point when he would place his heart in Anne's keeping, in spite of the knowledge that she did not want to be his.

François had not loved any of his previous wives. He had been peculiarly fond of Françoise and had once desired the Duchess d'Étampes, but it had been lust and affection. The thought that he had fallen in love with his third wife had not crossed his mind before. Until now.

The king looked as radiant as the sun casting light on the earth with its golden rays. Anne Boleyn was now the sun of his life! Indeed, his look of happiness was in curious contrast to his foul expression at the beginning of this conversation. He was delighted that Anne was his queen, his wife, and the mother of their daughter, but he wanted her to be his in all senses.

François grinned sheepishly. "I love _my_ Anne. She is the first woman who has become so dear to me. I was either too stupid or too conceited not to realize it before."

"Do not tell her about it; not now." Marguerite eased herself into a chair beside him. "Anne should get to know you better and see that you are Henry's opposite. She is very afraid of amours." With a sigh, she added, "I have no clue as to how long your wife will need to overcome her fears. She has lost her faith in love and hope for a brighter future. It is your mission to prove to her that there can be love after _obsession_ with a new and different person who and treasures her."

He was baffled. "You call her feelings for Henry _obsession_."

She inclined her head. " _An unhealthy obsession_ for the handsome, yet narcissistic and brutal, monarch which could never take Anne anywhere, except into the well of eternal grief."

The ruler pondered the matter. "I've never thought of Anne's romance with Henry in this vein. But maybe you are right. It would be better for us both if Anne realized that."

"She will understand it over time." Marguerite half-demanded, half-pleaded, "Brother, send all of your current and former mistresses away from court. Each of them!"

He clutched her fingers. "I promised Anne to do that. I shall abide by my word."

Marguerite cupped his hands over hers. "Act or you shall never be happy!"

After administering a compassionate pat on his shoulder, the Navarrese queen exited.

François swung the goblet around and sloshed some of the contents onto the floor, then swigged it down. A raven of despair perched at the mast of his marital ship, being tossed by a storm of his discord with Anne. The king registered a vow that come what would, by any means, he would conqueror Anne's heart and snatch it from the excruciating past.

His mistress came to him in half an hour. Appareled in an elegant gown of auburn damask ornamented with the House of Rohan's emblems, Claude de Rohan-Gié curtsied to him, her eyes downcast. She had deliberately chosen this garment to create an emotional distance between herself and the monarch, as if it could help her obliterate her associations with him.

"Rise." François stood up and approached her. "We must discuss something."

Claude straightened her spine. Her heart was breaking as she started, "I beg Your Majesty to permit me to retire from court. My father will be happy to have me back home."

At first, he was dumbfounded, then he comprehended why she had done it. "I'm grateful to you, Claude. I wish you happiness, and, of course, you are free to leave."

Tears glistered in her eyes. "I needed to sever our Gordian knot."

The king reached out and caressed her cheek. There was nothing in his touch or his look that could indicate his eagerness to continue their liaison. "Thank you."

She was unable to bear this torture another minute. "François, I understand why you began to perceive me more as a friend than a lover. Your heart belongs to your wife." She sighed. "I pray that your marital story will not be marked by unrelenting bleakness."

"I pray about the same thing," he intoned with a sigh.

His _former_ paramour giggled. "The Knight-King can conqueror Queen Anne."

His own grin was full of mischief. "He will try."

"If I find myself with child, I'll write you." The truth was that she prayed she had conceived on one of the June nights when he had still been willing to be with her.

The monarch nodded. "If it happens, I'll arrange a marriage for you."

 _I love François, but I must let him go,_ Claude de Rohan-Gié lamented wordlessly. Living in the countryside, she would miss the court's splendor, and above all things – all of the world's chivalries, ecstasies, and passions – she would ache for the King of France. Her infatuation with him, tinged with deep sensual shades, was so strong that it seemed to be perpetual like the history of mankind. She did not regret her affair with him at all, at least because no other man would have taught her as much in the art of beautiful physical love as François had done.

"Adieu, Your Most Chivalrous Majesty," Claude endeavored to joke.

His smile was affable. "Adieu, Madame."

After curtseying, Claude de Rohan-Gié paused near the door. "François, you dreamed of loving a unique creature with all your artistic nature, of having her with you to look into her eyes, and of hearing her answer that she loved you, too. Now you almost have this, and I hope the queen will appreciate you and allow you to make her happy." Then she spun on her heels and left.

François returned to his armchair and his nearly empty goblet. As he drained its contents, he summoned a groom and commanded him to dispatch all of his former lovers away from court. He could not keep a great many of these women away from court forever. However, this temporary measure was necessary to restore his spouse's faith in him and her trust to him.

§§§

The handsomely decorated queen's antechamber was bathed in a muted light from half a dozen heavily shaded antique lamps. Anne's gold-velvet, massive armchair stood in the corner, in the midst of red-brocade couches occupied by Mary and her other ladies.

"What time is it now?" Anne quizzed as she picked up one of the books.

Mary was sewing something for her children. "It is half past seven, sister."

The interior was far more modest than that of their favorite Fontainebleau residence. The walls were tapestried with scenes from the lives of the Valois kings. There were no frescoes in the room; several sculptures of ivory and bronze were tastefully scattered around the room. The red brocade, used for decorations of furniture in abundance, echoed the gold in regal symmetry.

Jeanne d'Angoulême was sulking. "At least, the walls are not bare."

Adrienne was frustrated as well. "I begin to appreciate the grandeur of other châteaux."

"Do not complain!" Mary chided. "The court will relocate again."

The queen was engrossed into reading _Decameron_ by Giovanni Boccaccio. Pausing, she retorted, "Complaining not only ruins everybody else's day, but also the complainer's."

A moment later, Françoise de Foix appeared in the room and curtsied to the queen.

Françoise's smile was large. "Your Majesty, I have interesting news."

Anne lifted her eyes from the volume. "What, Madame de Châteaubriant?"

The countess reported jovially, "King François ordered several women who have a certain previous connection to him to depart tomorrow at dawn. Swallowing their displeasure, they are now packing their possessions, some of them listening to the grumblings of their husbands." She spoke whimsically about the monarch's many former paramours, but all was clear.

Astonishment induced Anne to stand up; the book fell. "Can a leopard change its spots?"

Françoise spoke whimsically again. "Sublime feelings are the only force that is capable of transforming ice into warmth. Life is a song, Madame – now you can sing it."

Mary Stafford told her sister, "A grateful heart is a beginning of greatness, Anne."

Jeanne and Adrienne nodded their affirmative, chortling like pigeons.

Slowly, Anne seated herself back into her armchair. _The cord that united François to his dissolution has finally been severed. But what does it mean for us?_ A sense of respect to him settled over her, and the warmth of it caressed her scarred soul. The rapid thudding of her heart drummed in her ears like a roaring wind, almost blowing away her past. Almost… The thought of her revenge resurfaced, as if sent there by a deity of havoc residing within her being.

A vindictive glint illumined Anne's eyes. "Vengeance is better served cold."

Surprising everybody, the usually benign Mary Stafford hissed, "To exact revenge for yourself or your relatives and friends is not only a right – it is an absolute duty."

Jeanne figured out what they implied. "It is not a noble sentiment."

Adrienne remarked, "But it is a human one."

Françoise settled herself on a couch beside them. She then steered them into a pleasant territory. "The king has set the day of Your Majesty's grand coronation."

The queen smiled as triumphally as only the old Anne Boleyn could. Her dormant vivacious spirit resurrected, and euphoria flowed through her veins. She had once vowed that vengeance would become the organic part of her, until the tranquility of Henry Tudor's universe would be replaced with blood and tears. Anne would see to the completion of her sacred mission.

* * *

 ** _July 27, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France_**

At this late hour, Dauphine Catherine de' Medici almost ran through the corridor. Her two ladies scarcely kept pace with her. Surprised that Henri had summoned her, she moved rapidly, her Italian gown of emerald silk whipping in gusts round her legs, like the pennants atop a castle's towers. The bulging Medici eyes glimmered with hot fire of hope to be with her husband.

She entered her husband's rooms. "Your Highness!"

"Excellent." The dauphin's indifferent voice struck her like a blast of chilly air.

Henri lounged in a curule throne chair by a window, but he rose when she approached. She curtsied to him, and he did not dismiss her from the curtsey for so long that her legs ached.

"My father spoke to me about us." He evaded eye contact with her.

"When? King François is preoccupied with Queen Anne's upcoming coronation."

"Last winter during the war when His Majesty returned to court for a short time. It took me quite some time to realize that he is right, so I'll act exactly as he advised."

Silence, full of unspoken thoughts, stretched. Catherine recollected her conversation with Anne during their first private meeting in the queen's apartments. The dauphine had not offered her friendship again because Henri had not become less cold to her, in spite of Anne's promise to intercede on her behalf. _So, that Boleyn heretical slut spoke to François months earlier,_ Catherine deduced. _She kept her promise, but Henri was unwilling to bridge the gap between us._

The dauphin looked out; a bank of clouds formed in the sky, long streaks of rain striking down on the distant rim of the city. "We are husband and wife, despite my wishes to the contrary. Our relationship has been as dark as the rainy sky, but I have to change it."

"I'll do anything to please you," Catherine said cheerfully.

At last, he turned to her. "A male heir."

She cursed inwardly. But what else could he tell her? She stepped to him, but then halted before saying, "I cannot give you a child as long as you do not visit my bed, Henri."

"That is why now you are here, Catherine."

"I'll bear you a brood of sons." Torn between hurt at his aversion to her, and her delight in his offer, she supplemented, "If you do not neglect your marital duty to me."

"Today I'll fulfill it." With a disgusting smile, he plodded over to her.

Catherine noticed his reluctant gait. "But only because you must sleep with me."

"You speak too much." Henri began unlacing his hose.

"It pains me," she retorted through gritted teeth. "It pains me that you treat me so."

To his credit, her husband did not castigate her for the candor. "I'm sorry, but I shall never love you. You have to thank the deceased Pope Clement and my father for _our_ misery."

Catherine craved to slap him for the truth he had just uttered, but she had better manners than that. Glumly she held out a hand, expecting that he would help her undress, but he did not. Instead, Henri steered her to a canopy bed, its headboard featuring the Capetian coat-of-arms, as the furniture was ancient. He lifted his wife up upon it, then kneeled to push her skirts up.

Her expression transformed into shock. "No, not like this."

"I cannot give you more," he reiterated ungraciously. "I cannot."

Tears flowed from her eyes. "Why cannot it be affectionate?"

A quiet Henri sank into her gently and deeply, while keeping his eyes tightly shut and his lips compressed. Then both of them were caught up in the timeless rhythm, and he thrust harder and faster until he reached his peak and climaxed, releasing his seed into her. In spite of the awkwardness of their encounter and his deliberate restraint, they both experienced pleasure.

"At least, you were gentle," Catherine commented.

He withdrew from her with a sigh. "I'm not a monster."

After rearranging her skirts, she sat on the bed, observing him lace his hose. Then, with the predatory gaze of an eagle carrying off a hare, he bent over her and kissed her hand. His lips warm and soft against her skin, they didn't linger for more than a fraction of a second.

"I'll come to your rooms tomorrow." He straightened and walked away.

"We are well-matched, Henri," Catherine lamented with an air of sentimentality about her. "You live like in exile at your father's court, and so do I, for you ejected me from your life. In childhood, you suffered in captivity in Spain. I, too, know how horrible it is to be a prisoner. After my family was overthrown in Florence by a faction opposing to my relative Clement, I was taken hostage and placed in a series of convents. Our spirits know the same torment."

Henri glanced at her with interest. "But we are not meant for each other."

Leaping to her feet, Catherine rushed to him, as if she planned to launch herself into his arms. However, he did not open them, and she skidded to a halt, her eyes pleading.

Bitterly disappointed, the princess implored, "If only you allowed me to show you how happy we may be together. If only you knew _what I'm capable of doing for you_ …"

"No," was his chilly answer. "Leave before I say something rude."

Though offended by his response, she complied. "I'll wait for you tomorrow."

As soon as the door was shut behind her, the dauphin slumped into a chair.

Henri's dream was to divorce Catherine and marry his beloved Diane, who, to his great grief, was as if peripheral to his existence, someone he met every day and yet could not devote his life to her. Henri was the future King of France, and, surprisingly, many at court were turning to him for guidance, although he was secretly crumbling under the pressure of duty. _This Medici creature must conceive soon,_ Henri bemoaned in his mind. _Then I'll be only with Diane._

§§§

On the way to her quarters, Dauphine Catherine gave way to her abounding despondency. Her legs wobbled, and she fell to her knees, tears pouring from her eyes. She was conscious of herself as a creature of misfortunes, blackened by her sins, her brain dully wondering what the sum of all the sweat and strain to make Henri the king's heir apparent was. Was it all this misery Catherine was feeling now? Was it the unrewarded effort, or the stress that she endured?

Her Italian ladies-in-waiting – young Maddalena Bonajusti and Lucrezia Cavalcanti – gaped at Catherine. Each of them was attired in Italianate gowns of yellow and red damask, which were Medici colors, their stomachers embroidered with the Medici coat-of-arms. Although they had relocated to France four years earlier, they remained the Florentines through and through. As the dauphine did not have many friends at court, they maintained camaraderie with other Italians.

"Your Highness," Maddalena commenced. "Let us take you to your rooms."

Lucrezia stated, "Even if the dauphin saddened you, you cannot show your weakness."

"You are of course right." Ashamed, Catherine jumped to her feet. Her head swiveled back and forth to ensure that no one had seen her in the moment of weakness.

Maddalena lowered her voice to a whisper. "What did he do to you?"

The dauphine brushed the tears away. " _Madame Mistress_ bewitched him so much that I do not know how to annihilate her spell." She dropped her fingers to stroke the etched silver of her locket, where she kept love potions for her husband and which she always wore.

"He is not worthy of you." Lucrezia's comment broke the pause.

Catherine took a fortifying breath. "Not a day passes that he does not think of her."

Suddenly, they heard footsteps descending the stairs and moving through the corridor in their direction; they all went still. It was probably one of the courtiers, who were not sleeping yet, but Catherine found herself half-hoping, half-fearing that it was Henri.

Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli appeared at the end of the hallway. Splendid in a jeweled doublet of maroon and golden velvet, his broad sleeves puffed out like a peacock's tail, he was returning from another private party with Catherine's Florentine entourage. His belly full of wine and victuals, his loins aching from the sorry bout of drunken lovemaking, his mood was excellent until he saw _the Medici Queen_ , as he called Catherine in his mind, in such a grievous state.

"Your Highness!" Montecuccoli swept into a series of bows to his patroness.

"It is too late to be awake, Sebastiano," Catherine greeted.

As he stopped next to her, Montecuccoli noticed that the dauphine seemed subdued, even scared. "Your Highness, has someone wronged you? I do your bidding any time!"

Maddalena put a finger to her lips. "Montecuccoli, breathe a word of _this_ to anyone!"

These Italians had deadly secrets, of whose existence almost no one suspected. Each of them was devoted to Catherine, and their fates were intermingled like four rivers in a confluence.

"My husband's lover is a bloody nuisance," complained Catherine.

He prodded, "Should I just eliminate _the blonde weed_ from the earth?"

Lucrezia shook her head. "Impossible. We need that harlot. So far she is our ally."

Catherine's eyes flashed with a fierce light. "For the moment."

Montecuccoli smirked malignantly. "But things change."

Maddalena's mouth stretched in a grin. "Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die. I prefer the poison to be consumed with wine or food."

"But food or wine," started Lucrezia, "must be swallowed. At times, perfume is better."

The hazel pools of Montecuccoli glowed hellishly as he recalled his latest experiments with his new poison. "I've invented something for the most special cases. My apothecary – he has been my assistant for years – says that it brings sweet oblivion very quickly."

Catherine brightened. "What you and my astrologers do is an art, Sebastiano."

Montecuccoli bowed. "I'll perpetrate anything to make you the Queen of France."

Maddalena told the dauphine, "Every time you get angry with your husband, remember your main goal. We are all here not to return to Italy defeated, but to watch you ascend to glory."

Laughing in unison, they sauntered towards the dauphine's quarters. The dimly lit stillness of the falling night concealed their feelings and intentions, which palpitated in continuous silent activity. Their environments were so strongly tinctured with the darkness of their vulpine spirits that inside them there was a cauldron of boiling lethal intrigues, a core of living purgatory, for they had condemned their souls to hell when the late Dauphin François had breathed his last.

* * *

 _Hello, my dear readers! Please, let me know what you think about this chapter. Thank you very much in advance. I need inspiration!_

 _There are important changes for Anne and François. At last, she begins to understand that he is actually quite different from Henry. Mary talks sense into her sister, but Anne has a long way ahead before she is ready to have a normal marriage and before her faith in love is restored._

 _Finally, François realizes that he is in love with Anne. They spent a lot of time apart due to the invasion of France. Thus, it took François some time to fall for Anne and to come to a point where he does not want to sleep with other women. François I was a philanderer, but perhaps if he had met his true love in history, he would have devoted his life to her – the historical François I did not love Claude of France and Eleanor of Austria, but he could love Anne de Pisseleu._

 _Please tell me what you think about the scenes when Anne finds François together with Claude de Rohan-Gié, as well as the scene of Anne's dramatic conversation with François in the Tour de l'Horloge, or the Clock Tower. These scenes were rewritten 2 or 3 times._

 _As for Marguerite's assumption that Anne's love for Henry can be better described as unhealthy obsession… This is my opinion: there was obsessive passion between Anne and Henry, but such feelings are unhealthy. When Anne eventually falls in love with François, her love will be more mature, less selfish, deeper, and less turbulent._

 _I want to warn you again: Catherine de' Medici will not be Anne's ally in this AU. In the part covering events happening between 1545 and 1547/8, including Henry's death (I am writing it now), Catherine is one of the main antagonists, and she weaves a conspiracy against Anne and François so that Henri becomes King of France. Please bear in mind that Dauphin Henri is not an antagonist: he does not know what his wife and mistress are doing, and eventually he will become Anne's friend. Her ladies-in-waiting – Maddalena Bonajusti and Lucrezia Cavalcanti – were indeed the Florentine ladies of Catherine de' Medici._

 _All the historical information about Palais de la Cité in Paris is correct._

 _I've started to respond to reviews to chapter 19. I thought there would be fewer reviews to chapter where there is no Henry, Anne, and François. Please give me some time._

 _I'll try to update twice a month: on 20/21 and 30/31. There can be delays of course, depending on real life. Be at ease: you will be reading this fic in years to come._

 _ **Attention!** I have a poll about Jane Boleyn's fate on my profile page! Thanks for your vote in advance! _

_Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	22. Chapter 21: A Whirl of Letters

**Chapter 21: A Whirl of Letters**

 ** _August 10, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France_**

Queen Anne stood near a window in her antechamber. In the park, a cavalcade of knights from the Scots guard awaited their sovereign to escort him to his destination. These days, King François frequented Parisian churches to thank God for his victory over the House of Habsburg and to distribute alms to the poor, whose numbers had increased due to the war.

"He is handsome," she admitted to herself, watching the monarch cross the garden.

Her heart constricted in her breast as François mounted, as if his departure tantalized her with a prospect of their perpetual separation. His tall, athletic figure, clad in a raiment of mulberry satin passmented with gold, looked majestic on his white stallion. As he veered his gaze towards his wife's windows, Anne imagined that he longed to see her, but he quickly turned away.

Loneliness hit the queen as soon as the royal cortege disappeared in the distance.

The River Seine flashed like a burnished cuirass in the rays of the rising sun.

Anne's mood was dark. She would gladly have accompanied her husband to some cathedral so as to showcase herself as the Queen of France and the savior of the Knight-King. The entirety of Christendom knew that she had saved his life during the invasion, but she needed to cultivate her heroic reputation. Anne also yearned to be in his company, yet François treated her with polite indifference and courtesy even after their candid conversation in the Clock Tower.

"There is a missive for you," Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, apprised.

"Thank you, Madame de Châteaubriant." Anne took the parchment from her hands.

"You are welcome, Your Majesty."

Anne no longer perceived her husband's former mistress as a nuisance. Françoise was not the king's annoying spy: the countess wished the queen all the best, even though it irritated Anne that the older woman advised her to be kinder to the ruler. Yet, Anne had grown to trust Françoise.

Françoise curtsied and was about to leave, but Anne's question halted her.

"Do you still love my husband?" The words slipped from the queen's tongue before she could stop herself. She was surprised how easily she referred to the king as her spouse.

"Madame, do you aim to darken my day?"

"Nothing of the sort." Now Anne lounged casually on a red brocaded coach.

Françoise sent her a look of misery. "It matters not. I'm not his mistress."

"Yet, François loved you once." The queen was apparently hurting the other woman, but she selfishly pried into her husband's personal life, even into his distant past.

"Not even long ago," admitted Françoise in a tormented voice.

"However, His Majesty kept you as his maîtresse-en-titre for years."

The countess' thoughts strayed down a forbidden path. Even though a lot of time had elapsed, François was still the only man in Françoise's heart. The ruler's younger face contorted in spasms of desire swam in front of her eyes, and her lips parted as if she could feel his soft, yet demanding, mouth on hers. The numberless nights of the unbridled passion that had once dragged them to the brink of indescribable and gorgeous sensuality, flickered in her head, and her body grew hot. Then, horrifyingly, the monarch's farewell letter emerged before her mind's eye.

Françoise remained silent, as though seeking for an evasive reply. Anne stood up, came to a table, and poured out a measure of cognac, then walked to her lady-in-waiting and handed the chalice to her. The countess swallowed it swiftly, the burn of the liquid as it slid down her throat driving out the unwanted memories, in spite of doing little to soothe her heartache.

Françoise summed up her relationship with the monarch. "He adored and respected me, and we have always been friends on a deep level. Nevertheless, he has never loved me."

Anne snorted. "He seems to be attracted to every pretty woman."

"François has always been a high-spirited, ripe-for-mischief man, very handsome and male. Most women wanted and want him, but he didn't sleep with everyone – don't believe rumors."

Anne's curiosity was piquing. "But you caught his eye, Madame."

"Yes, I did. The king has always been attracted to intelligent women of refined manners and sensible disposition. I was one of the many such ladies at court, and in addition, I was a married woman who loved her husband back then. But it was impossible to resist His Majesty's charm, and soon I surrendered, eventually falling deeply in love with him, because he is and will always be an unparalleled mixture of erudition, kindness, gentleness, and generosity."

"You remind me of my sister." Sadness tinctured the queen's intonation.

"Most of his paramours loved His Majesty. But he had a special connection only with me throughout the years we were together. I doubt he has ever had such bonds with Anne de Pisseleu."

"You do not like Madame d'Étampes, do you?"

The queen's lady sneered, "Despite all her intelligence and her beauty, I do not think that she could ever be more than the king's bedmate, although she ensnared him for years."

Anne concurred. "When His Majesty saw her true self, he set her aside."

"Yes." Françoise maneuvered the conversation to the topic at hand. "François loved me as much as a connoisseur adores his rarest painting, treating me like a true knight. Nevertheless, he has never been tied to me in a spiritual vein, because I've never been his _equal_."

A furrow formed on Anne's forehead. "No woman can be his equal in his opinion."

"You are wrong, Your Majesty. Someone is his equal in all senses, though not in her lack of royal blood." Françoise permitted herself to wink at the queen against etiquette.

After dropping a curtsey, the Countess de Châteaubriant quitted the room.

§§§

A puzzled Anne sighed, her thoughts churning in a million different directions. Yet, each of them was reverting to the King of France, as though he was the only shimmering star of her future. At this moment, she was burning with desire to glimpse at least his figure in a hallway.

Seeking some distraction, the queen unfolded a parchment stamped with some seal. As she studied the missive, traces of befuddlement painted her countenance. Isabella of Portugal had used neither the Habsburg seal nor the Imperial one, having chosen her maiden seal.

 _Your Majesty, Queen Anne of France,_

 _I can imagine how astounded and, most likely, angry you will be upon the receipt of this letter. We have neither seen nor communicated with each other before._

 _I never supported my husband's expedition to France, but I could do nothing to prevent it. We women have to endure our men's obsessions. Out of all women, you know this better than anyone else. My Carlos is as infected with the idea of crushing your husband, François, as Henry, your former spouse, is obsessed with sons. You might loathe me, but you cannot deny that wars beget wars, and the forceful creation of empires ignites the same desires in others._

 _What will happen once France and Spain recover from the devastation created by the latest conflict? Another campaign, more death and more human suffering, further impoverishment of our countries. More innocents will be killed or crippled, and this will rankle upon our consciences, for no good Christian, Protestant or Catholic, wants to cause endless unhappiness to mankind._

 _Will we allow our husbands, who persevere in their hatred for one another, to unleash a new war? Will my son, Philip, or François' heir, Henri, endeavor to exact vengeance upon each other for their fathers' failures? For many days while Carlos lay in fever, I asked myself whether we can do something to preclude another disaster from ruining the future of Europe._

 _Can we stop this madness, Your Majesty? My proposal might befuddle you, but I think we can work together covertly to make our spouses reach a shaky peace out of love for our children and our countrymen. My offer is to have your little daughter, Princess Louise of France, betrothed to my son – Philip, Prince of Asturias. For the sake of peace in Christendom!_

 _Carlos does not know that I wrote to you. Consider this letter my offer of friendship to you, and my official acknowledgement of your royal status in France._

 _Isabella_

The personal signature at the end of the letter caught Anne's attention. "She does not call herself the Holy Roman Empress. She is just Isabella who bared her heart to me."

Anne's mind grappled with the dilemma of what to do next, her anxiety mounting. If François learned about Isabella's proposal, his fury would be like a deluge, despite his mellow temper, for he loathed the Habsburgs with every fibre of his being. Her husband would dismiss the empress' words as a Habsburg ruse to lure the Valois family and France into a trap. Anne had no clue as to whether it was their enemy's trick, but she did not hurry to make this conclusion.

She folded the paper and tucked it into her sleeve. "I'll think about it later."

The door opened, and Françoise appeared once more. "Your Majesty has a visitor."

A moment later, a middle-aged woman, appareled in a rich gown of gray and silver velvet, entered. She was Lady Elizabeth Boleyn née Howard, Countess of Wiltshire and of Ormond.

"Mother…" All other words stuck in Anne's throat.

With a limpid smile, Elizabeth murmured dulcetly, "My Annie! Again a queen!"

Like a whirl of joy, Anne raced forward and hugged her. Sobbing in happiness to see her favorite child alive, Elizabeth pulled Anne into her arms deeper, their embrace molding them to each other like a second layer of skin. Françoise left them to enjoy their long-awaited reunion.

§§§

The queen's bedroom was alive with energy and excitement during the next few hours. The Boleyn women sat by the window overlooking the tranquil river, as if their meeting had calmed the water down. They chatted about everything, including the monarch's plan for Anne's grand coronation in September. Isabella of Portugal's letter was temporarily forgotten.

Elizabeth Boleyn glanced between Anne and Mary. "I'm so happy to be here!"

Anne bestowed the smile of tremendous brilliance upon the countess. "Mother, I cannot believe that you have come here from England. Please, stay with us in France."

Recalling her husband's angry face upon her departure, Elizabeth chortled with a mixture of spiteful satisfaction and pure joy at seeing her daughters. "When I boarded the ship in Dover, I left my past behind and went to you, my dearest girls. Now you are everything I have!"

"George," the lament tumbled from Anne's lips. "I miss him so much."

"Our dearest brother…" Mary's voice shattered at the remembrance of his demise.

Although her heart writhed in agony, Elizabeth kept an outwardly calm demeanor. "George was a good man. He has gone down in history as being the brother of the ill-fated Queen Anne who was spared by King Henry only due to riots against her execution. Oh Lord, I do not want my dear boy to be remembered as someone who was executed for treason and incest."

Anne's animosity manifested on her visage. "When I married King François, he promised me that he would aid me to take revenge on that Tudor beast." Her fists clenched in her lap. "My hatred for Henry is perpetual, just as the torments of sinners are in the underworld."

Mary shared her sister's feelings. "That thug must suffer."

In spite of her natural kindness, Elizabeth abhorred the English ruler for everything he had done to her offspring. "God bless the King of France to keep his word. Henry of England – the murderer of our George, William Stafford, and many others – must live in hell on earth."

Anne vowed, "I'm his nemesis who will allocate the most severe retribution to him."

The chill of their grievous past cooled their initial excitement.

Having been a stunning beauty in her youth, Elizabeth Boleyn had aged well. Her cheeks like a blush-rose, her sage eyes of cerulean blue exuded grace and elegance. Her face, which almost did not have wrinkles, was framed by long, flaxen tresses hidden beneath her French hood, and a few streaks of gray hair were poking out from it. Her gray attire matched the pallor of her features from fatigue, which were not regular, but classically faultless in outline.

Anne compared her mother and Mary to herself. The two women were as different from the youngest Boleyn girl as a swan could be from a raven. The dark-haired Anne with brown eyes had taken after her Boleyn grandmother – Lady Margaret Butler, who had been an Irish noblewoman and the daughter of the previous Earl of Ormond. If the palm of classic beauty could not be assigned to Anne because of her exotic appearance, then her mother and sister deserved it thanks to their traditional English loveliness with light complexion and blonde curls.

As their conversation went on and on, the buds of their candor were unfurling like a flower in spring. Her relatives were relieved that Anne had been disillusioned with the King of England; but they were chagrined that the queen was hesitant to patch up her second marriage.

Elizabeth Boleyn steered the discourse to the King of France. "Anne, François de Valois is your husband in the eyes of God and the law. Your duty is to treat him as such."

The queen bristled, "I shall never be enslaved to another narcissistic monarch! Despite being his wife, I shall not allow François to rule me! I'll not be his toy, just as his many mistresses are. He will not burn my heart with his egotistical needs to make me a shell of myself."

Mary shook her head. "He is not trying to do that. Do not be unfair to him."

"Am I?" Inwardly, Anne recognized the truth in their words.

The queen rose to her feet and marched to the window. Looking out into the gardens became her pastime. The air was warm and clear, all a-glitter with sunlight, the ripples of which reflected on the smooth surface of the River Seine, and the cloudless sky was arching overhead.

Mary came to Anne, watching boats traverse the river. "King François is one of the most enlightened men of the era. He respects women and considers the most remarkable ones strong, capable, and equal in value to men. He has always been surrounded by smart ladies, taking their sage counsel: Louise of Savoy, Marguerite of Navarre, and Claude of France. The Valois mother, brother, and sister were glorified as ' _Holy Trinity'_ in Madame Louise's lifetime."

"Indeed." Anne could not object to that. "When the war with Spain started, His Majesty invited me to attend the meetings of his Privy Council and Military Council. He listened to my advice and was interested in my opinions, although some of his councilors distasted it."

Mary took the queen's hands in hers, as if her touch could persuade her to alter her behavior towards the king. "Matrimonial happiness is always the result of human forces working together. In your case, God joined together two artistic, erudite, strong, unconventional, and willful spirits which can achieve the supreme level of emotional comfort and security together."

For a short time, the Boleyn girls froze near the window, observing the gardeners pick off the rare wilted blossoms in flowerbeds and water the plants.

Releasing her hands from her grasp, Anne laughed tragically. "This sounds too lovely to be true. A royal marriage is a golden cage that houses a king and his queen in the regal splendor, but where he and his court silence, torment, and strangle her spirit."

"Oh, that is ludicrous!" Mary refuted. "We are not at Henry's court. Now we are at the most glittering court in Europe, where the prominence of women is growing."

"But marriage is a soul-destroying thing," the queen persevered.

Huffing in irritation, Elizabeth stood up and crossed to a high-back, gilded armchair carved with double-headed eagles, the remnants of the old era and the previous Valois monarchs. "Anne, I love you wholeheartedly, but your stubbornness is sometimes too much to bear."

Her youngest daughter returned to her chair. "I'm sorry if I've disappointed you, mother."

Mary settled herself back in her chair. "Both of us, Anne."

Elizabeth reminisced, "There was a time when your father and I were quite happy together. Thomas was a different man back then: kind, generous, cultured, and respectful of women."

"Until power corrupted him," Mary supplemented scornfully.

Anne wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I'm not inclined to talk about that blackguard who abandoned all of his children in the hour of need. Let him remain in Hever Castle in disgrace and rot there. I do not see him as my father and refuse to remember him again."

A look of sadness flickered across Elizabeth's face. "Thomas has long become only the Earl of Wiltshire for me. Not the young and handsome man I fell in love with so much that I eloped with him, despite him being a knight, his nobleness tainted by his merchant ancestral blood."

Once the youthful Howard belle with eyes blue like the transparent blue pond had fallen ardently in love with the Boleyn knight, despite his far lower station. For many years, kisses of serenity had fallen upon her from her loving husband's mouth, and she had given him several children, only three of whom had survived. At the time, their future had seemed like the enormous azure canvas above them, celestial and pure, prettily bordered with paradisal flowers.

Over time, cankered by ambition, Thomas Boleyn had transmuted into an avaricious, crafty, and ruthless courtier who had grappled for the Tudor ruler's favor. His increasing propensity to sacrifice his loved ones on the altar of his advancement had cooled off Elizabeth's feelings for him considerably. As she had aged, Thomas had commenced to actively indulge in sins of the flesh and of the spirit – in vices that his wife did not deem pardonable. Then Anne had fallen…

Elizabeth had resigned to her own grievances without too much rancor, but she could not accept those of Mary, George, and Anne. Her son was no longer in the world of the living, but her daughters were alive and _both unhappy_. Elizabeth would never forgive her husband, whom she had last seen while having packed her things, for the villainies he had done to their kids.

Mary commented, "Your Howard pride is speaking."

Elizabeth inclined her head. "I feel more a Howard than a Boleyn, although it used to be different a while ago. I gifted your father my heart, but he trampled my love for him in his quest for power and pleasures. When he did not defend George and you, Anne, he died for me."

"Mother," started a frowning Mary, "I remember you happy with Wiltshire only in childhood and my early adolescence. Then he began taking lovers, and you became so sad."

A sigh fled Elizabeth's lips. "Girls, I don't think that Lord Wiltshire and I have ever been kindred spirits. It took me years to realize that. But with all my experience, I can see that King François and you, Anne, are far more compatible than I've ever been with your father."

"Mother, please–" Anne was interrupted.

Elizabeth lectured, "Giving someone who is exceedingly likely to be your soulmate a piece of your soul is better than giving a piece of your heart. Why? Souls are immortal! The French sovereign is so much like someone you may fall in love with, so utterly and so deeply that you two will communicate and commune like creatures blessed by a divine grace."

"My beloved and obstinate sister!" Mary Stafford stepped to the other woman and took hold of her hands. "Look at me, Anne! Seize the chance and live without regrets! You are married to such a magnificent man, who is your baby girl's father and who can give you home and children. You say that a royal marriage is a cage, but you can open its door and fly like a bird."

Anne blinked in what was essentially wordless shock. "Will he let me be free?"

Elizabeth verbalized her opinion of the Valois ruler. "When Wiltshire served as the English ambassador to France, I had the honor of often talking with King François, so I know him a little. A man of amorous and artistic nature, your husband strives to expand his vision and outlook, and to create the world where he can enjoy the freedom of spirit, body, and intellect."

"François is a singular man of distinction," Mary summarized.

These praises of the monarch were fair, but Anne found the situation hilarious. "I cannot deny that you are right, but this does not make him a good husband."

"Your conversation in the Clock Tower," Mary emphasized. "It proves that the king wants to make your marriage work. He ejected all of his former mistresses for your sake. Not every marriage dooms a woman to a slow death, and François will not destroy you."

Elizabeth Boleyn glanced sternly at the queen from across the room. "On a serious note, Anne, you must remember that what the Lord joined together let no man put asunder."

The elder Boleyn girl clamored, "We will not stand any more nonsense from you, Anne."

Anne smirked. "You are both too blunt. I need to remind you that I'm a queen."

Mary took umbrage at this statement. "You said that I must treat you as a sister."

The queen's lips curved in a grin. "Don't you see that I'm jesting, Mary?"

They all laughed merrily. A feeling of jolly serenity was settling over the chamber.

After a moment's repose, Mary quizzed, "Will you be kinder to the king?"

"I will," the queen promised. Her mother and sister smiled at her approvingly.

Anne flittered her gaze to the window. A mass of clouds overshadowed the sun, and she interpreted it as a possible bad omen for her and François. Yet, her resolve to spend this evening with the monarch after his return solidified. At the thought that he could reject her, a sensation of forlornness overcame her, and she wondered whether François could fill the void in her life.

§§§

After the king's return, Queen Anne sauntered through the corridors without her ladies. As she walked past sentinels guarding the royal apartments, her smile was as scintillating as one on the face of the Goddess Hebe when she had married Heracles, the Greek famous hero.

She entered the room. "Your Majesty, may I borrow a moment of your time?"

However, no one responded, as if the room were empty. Anne examined the study that was paneled in mahogany and darkened, but there was candlelight enough to discern the gloomy figure in the distance. With a distinct air of bereavement about him, King François sat at a marble table piled with books and parchments. As he stared into the flames of a candle, his countenance was inscrutable, but at times, his lips twitched as if in a sudden spasm of anguish.

"Your Majesty!" She took a tentative step to him.

The response was a dismal stillness. As Anne tiptoed towards him, the shadows of funereal somberness assailed her from all sides, striking her with the red-hot pokers of his torment.

The ruler broached the subject that had been on her mind for months. "I'll tell you exactly what you crave to hear. A week earlier, I sent several letters to England to start your retribution scheme. I'm certain that the Duke of Norfolk and Francis Bryan will ally with us."

This pleased his wife. "I'm immensely grateful."

"Vengeance is the center of your life." This struck a chord of vibration within her bosom.

Alarm permeated her as she halted beside his chair. "What has happened?"

"Death is a vicious dame." His voice was tremulous, like a violin string stretched taut.

Anne noticed the parchment in his hand. "A letter from whom?"

François directed two amber caverns of pain at his wife. "I've received news from Scotland. My daughter… my dearest Madeleine… died several weeks ago."

The dark pools exuded heartache and sincerity. "My deepest sympathies, Your Majesty. I'm sorry that she died so young. I shall pray for her, God let her rest in peace."

"Thank you, Anne." His grief whitened his visage to a bleached stone. "Once a priest told me that the Lord takes to heaven such innocent souls more often than the wicked ones."

"I'm so sorry," she repeated.

François rubbed his temple with one hand, while continuing to clutch the parchment in the other. "I believe in God, but at times, I do not understand His judgment."

His abysmal grief had claimed all his energy. A bereft François looked like a shell of his usual self, no longer possessing a magnificent stock of endurance, bravery, strength, and faith.

When the letter fell to the floor and rolled to her feet, Anne picked it up and read it.

 _Your benevolent Majesty, King François,_

 _Madeleine, your dearest daughter and my most beloved wife, breathed her last in my arms at our castle in Edinburgh. It happened on the 7th of July, a month before her 17th birthday. Since then, I've been asking the Almighty why He has taken her gentle soul from earth._

 _On my behest, Madeleine was buried in the Royal Chapel Holyrood Abbey in Edinburgh, next to King James II of Scotland. As now our marriage and her death are commemorated by the poet Sir David Lyndsay in his 'Deploration of Death of Queen Magdalene', I re-read this verse every day, remembering the pageantry of our wedding in France and Scotland._

 _I swear on all I hold dear that I loved Madeleine more than life itself. Guilt was devouring me when my wife, weakened by her swiftly progressing illness, castigated me for my refusal to send Scottish troops to you so that they could fight for France against the Habsburgs._

 _King Henry VIII threatened me that if I had helped Your Majesty, his armies would swarm Scotland. Knowing that France was too preoccupied to defend my country, I strove to avoid a confrontation with England. The ignominious death of my father, James IV of Scotland, plays out in my mind every day; that Spanish harpy, Catherine of Aragon, killed him at Flodden._

 _Pardon me for my betrayal if you can, although I'll never forgive myself._

 _James of Scotland who is unworthy of your friendship. Yet, if you can find it in yourself to maintain good relations between us, let us renew the 'Auld Alliance' between our realms._

Anne put the letter on the table. "Henry Tudor swayed him to betrayal."

"Yes," François hissed. "He will pay for all of his sins. That I promise you, wife."

She breathed out a sigh. "Forget about that monster for now."

A plaintive laugh erupted from the ruler. "Fate has a weird sense of humor. It was not France's destiny to become a slave to the House of Habsburg. Yet, it was Madeleine's fate to die so young." His voice shuddered like an echo in stone. "My daughter always was as fragile as the most delicate flower. I suspected that the harsh Scottish climate would weaken her health, so I initially rejected her marriage. But she wept and entreated me to let her marry James."

Anne placed a caring hand upon his shoulder. "They loved each other."

François looked as pathetic as if the Lord had just pronounced a stinging moral judgement on him. "It is my fault that Madeleine is dead. I should have rejected the match! I should have insisted that James marry Marie de Bourbon, to whom he was betrothed."

"No," she objected hotly. "You are not guilty."

His sorrow was poignant. "I've never felt as lonely as I do feel now."

As the monarch's gaze locked with his consort's, Anne discerned the unutterable pain in those deep, affable, and tender eyes, which she had grown to adore.

Acting on impulse, she stormed out, hearing his broken voice, "Anne!"

In a minute, the queen was in the nursery, where she grabbed Princess Louise. Yesterday, the girl had been delivered from Saint-Germain-en-Laye to court, together with Mary's children, at her mother's behest. Crooning to the sleeping child, Anne walked back to the king's rooms.

"You are not alone," the queen stated as she returned to her husband's study.

At the sight of his consort and their baby, the ruler stood up and closed the gap between them. Torrents of unalloyed love and fledging hope flooded him, like some divine river.

His wife gazed at him cordially. "You have us, sire."

François enveloped his queen into his arms, and their daughter nested between them. He deposited a kiss onto the girl's cheek, and then his lips brushed Anne's like a feather. Holding the infant in one hand, Anne wrapped the other arm around his back, pulling him closer.

Something else warmed the monarch's soul. A month earlier, Adrienne d'Estouteville had birthed his bastard son named Nicholas. Adrienne's husband – François de Bourbon, Count de Saint-Pol and de Chaumont – had accepted the boy as his heir. King François would not share the news with his wife: he did not want Anne to distance herself from him, and to be hurt by the fact that his former mistress had birthed his son, while Anne had given him a princess.

§§§

The dauphin's private chambers were scarcely lit by a series of candles, which seemed to pop out of the most unexpected nooks and crannies. For a long time, Dauphin Henri and Prince Charles, Duke d'Orléans, were quiet, giving tribute to their deceased sister Madeleine.

His brother's silence, coupled with his haunted expression, made Henri feel something twist in his chest. Shoving away from a window, he plodded over to a table. "I cannot help but think of Madeleine every hour. Do you remember her wedding with the King of Scots?"

Charles emitted a deep sigh. "Of course, I do. Our father opposed their union."

The dauphin poured a goblet of wine and drained it in one gulp. "He was absolutely right. Her health was too weak, and she could not have survived in cold climate for long."

"Father permitted them to marry because they fell in love during James' visit to France."

Henri slammed the empty goblet on the table. "Love! What does it mean in royal marriages? I was forced into a disgusting union with Catherine, but I did my duty to France. The king should not have been so sentimental when he gave in to his love-struck teenaged daughter's solicitations to wed James of Scotland. That destitute king who turned out to be France's traitor!"

When his stare shifted to his sibling, Charles was crying, tears rolling down his cheeks. He struggled for air as he stuttered, "I loved… Madeleine so much, but she… is gone."

Henri's eyes stung with tears. "Our Madeleine… God rest her soul."

Charles stretched out his hand to the other man. "Brother! My brother! We have lost many siblings, Henri. Now only you, Marguerite, and I are left, as well as little Louise."

As if swept off by a superior power, Henri sprinted to the younger prince, his usual restraint gone. Spontaneously, he embraced Charles and held him in his arms. They wept, and love in their relationship had never reigned with more absolute sway than it did at the current moment. When they disentangled, their filial bond was stronger, though still tainted by their rivalry.

Charles veered an anguished gaze to him. "Madeleine was two years older than me. She and I played together and learned how to read and write together. When Marguerite was born, we both considered her our doll in her crib. Our mother frequented the nursery until she died."

The dauphin gripped his hands together behind his back. "The three of us are only several years apart, but I rarely spent time with you. I disliked your eccentric games."

"It was your choice, Henri. We always wanted you to participate."

A look of sorrow settled over the dauphin's features. "I adored you all, but everyone loved you and Madeleine more than me. They adored Marguerite more than me. Not only our father, but even our mother and our grandmother, Louise. All I wanted was your love!"

Charles deciphered the bitterness in his brother's voice. "You were jealous of us."

"Should I not have been, Charles?"

"You should not. Do you know why?" Charles' arm slithered across his sibling's back.

"Why?" the dauphin echoed with interest.

Charles wiped the tears. "I shall open you a secret: we all envied you, Henri. You were so smart: without any effort, you excelled in reading, mathematics, literature, languages, history, and other subjects. Even when we were toddlers, you were cleverer, and your memory was better. We wished to be as smart as you were, dreaming that you would teach us how to be good at studies. Nevertheless, because of your reserved behavior, we feared to approach you."

Staring at his brother's astonished face, the Duke d'Orléans continued, "We thought that you did not want to be around us." He let out a grin. "Our mother and grandmother scolded us for being flippant and noisy, although Margot was more serious than Madeleine and I. They and our father used to say that we ought to be more serious, just as you have always been."

"Really?" Henri was baffled as to how he could have misinterpreted so many things from his childhood, having let them blindly shape so much of his life.

"Yes, brother." Charles hugged Henri tightly.

The dauphin smiled at his sibling as they parted. "Well, if it was my seriousness you were avoiding, fate certainly paid a cruel trick on each of us, didn't it, Charles?"

The prince regarded him with a melting sadness. "Yes, it did. Unfortunately, fate meted out a suitable punishment for us: we lost Madeleine. But we still have one another, Henri."

A wan smile touched Henri's lips. "And Marguerite."

"Let's pay a visit to our father," proposed Charles.

At Henri's nod, the two princes exited and passed through the hallway. As they turned into the left corridor, they encountered Dauphine Catherine and Diane de Poitiers.

"You two together?" asked an astounded Henri.

"Without your ladies?" Charles inquired, also nonplussed.

Catherine explained, "Madame de Poitiers and I met in the corridor."

"Accidentally," Diane put in. "Your Highnesses, my condolences on your sister's death."

The dauphin's smile that had appeared on his countenance at the sight of his paramour faded. "Thank you, Diane. The loss is so great that we will not recover from it."

"You will, in some time," Catherine contradicted. "Death is a perfectly normal part of life. Perhaps happiness is not meant for mere mortals, especially not for royals."

A shudder wracked Charles. "I strongly disagree with you, Madame la Dauphine." Turning to his brother, he urged, "Let's go, Henri. Our father needs us."

Henri didn't respond. He looked so forlorn that Diane neared him.

Diane smiled at her lover. "Go to the king, Henri. We will see each other soon."

Tipping his head, the dauphin trudged off, followed by his brother.

"Anyone might die," Catherine grumbled. "Now they will nurse their hurt for months."

"It will pass," Diane uttered. "You are definitely right, Catherine. Nonetheless, I've noticed that at times, your behavior puts Henri into a torpor, so be careful with words."

This infuriated the dauphine: despite her denials, it was somewhat true. "It is none of your business, _Madame Mistress_. Your thoughts must flow in _a more pragmatic direction_."

Diane jeered, "Yours too, _Madame Serpent_."

As the two women disappeared into the adjacent corridor, they didn't see Queen Anne in a niche in a nearby hallway. Anne arched a brow, struggling to absorb what she had overheard on the way from the ruler's quarters. Her daughter, Louise, slept in the arms of Jeanne d'Angoulême. As they headed to the nursery, a sense of alarm was relentlessly devouring Anne.

§§§

Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, was sleepy as he entered his sovereign's rooms at almost midnight. The dim light from the candles highlighted the silhouette of King François.

"Your Majesty," began the Duke de Guise, bowing. "I'm at your disposal."

Pale like death itself, his profile turned to his subject, the monarch was barely recognizable. His nostrils flared slightly as he breathed. "My daughter, Queen Madeleine of Scotland, died."

Guise remembered the young frail girl, and crossed himself. "I'm very sorry, Your Majesty."

The king gazed at the table where a stunning illuminated manuscript lay before him opened. His sons and his daughter Margot had just left his rooms; they had read the manuscript together, praying for Madeleine. "Her soul was too gentle to live happily in this cruel world."

"My deepest condolences." This was a sincere feeling on Guise's part.

François pivoted his head, with hollow eyes, to councilor. "King James was blackmailed by King Henry of England who threatened him to plunder Scotland if he sent troops to us. I find this explanation plausible and want to renew the Auld Alliance, so James needs a wife."

"Who does Your Majesty have on your mind?"

The king answered in an unemotional voice, "Your eldest daughter, Marie de Guise."

A decidedly astonished Guise asked, "Your Majesty?"

"I'll not repeat, Claude. Your Marie is young, lovely, and marvelously educated. She is not a princess of the blood, but I'll give her a large dowry to compensate for the lack of royal blood. Regardless of my grief, it is important for France to cement our alliance with Scotland."

The duke inwardly screamed in jubilation. "Of course, my liege – politics never sleep. I already have an answer: Marie will marry the King of Scots if he accepts her as his bride."

"I had no doubt. Avarice has won." Tinged with dolorific colors, the despondent stillness that followed was accentuated by the droning of a fly in a window.

A surge of dread rushed through the Duke de Guise. His apparent eagerness had displeased his sovereign – he had failed to suppress it. "How else can I serve you and France?"

"Leave." The ruler's voice was glacial.

Bowing, Duke Claude de Guise vacated the king's rooms, his spirits soaring.

François took a deep, cleansing breath. _I'll get through this,_ he told himself. _I'll get through everything as long as I have my other four children. And perhaps Anne… over time._ Memories of how he had carried his green-eyed and blonde-haired little Madeleine in his arms swarmed his head. The purity of his youth had long since been lost in the drudgery of earthly experience. At the moment despite his self-reassurances, the monarch's heart was filled with infinite weakness.

* * *

 ** _August 18, 1537,_ _Kenninghall, the Duchy of Norfolk, England_**

Darkness had enveloped the village of Kenninghall, and candelabra were lit around the perimeter of the cozy study. Their countenances tinged with mystery, two men sat at a table laden with ledgers and papers. A mere hour earlier, Sir Francis Bryan had descended onto the manor as he had dismounted with flair and demanded that he be admitted to the Duke of Norfolk.

"What will you do now, Your Grace?" Sir Francis Bryan inquired.

"I'll become the King of France's ally," averred Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk.

Norfolk's mind meandered to the Valois ruler's missive written in flawless English, which had surreptitiously been brought to him by a French spy. He had retired from court to Kenninghall, one of the manors of the Dukes of Norfolk, because these days, the English monarch's exceedingly volatile temper might trigger calamitous eruptions of rage after the queen's miscarriage. Thomas had read the letter from France so many times that he had memorized it by heart.

 _Your Grace of Norfolk,_

 _I hope this letter finds you hale and hearty. I was informed that you would stay in your estates until autumn. The air in cities like Paris and London is not that healthy in summer._

 _We are not so fortunate. My court, my queen, and I are currently staying in our capital as we are preparing for Her Majesty's coronation. On the 12th of September, which is my birthday, the most lavish pageant will take Anne from the Palais de la Cité to the Basilica of Saint Denis for the coronation ceremony. It will be not just a procession, but an official statement that Anne is my rightful wife and queen. We shall celebrate the beginning of a new era for France and Europe, as well as my union with Anne and our victory over the Holy Roman Empire._

 _Your callous attitude towards Anne and George Boleyn after their arrests paints you as an out-and-out villain. You abandoned them to weasel out of the disaster because you could lose everything for the mere association with the Boleyns. Nevertheless, you saved Mary Stafford when your homicidal king ordered the execution of the pilgrims and their families. Now the Boleyn girls are under my protection, and their mother joined them at my court._

 _I swear that I shall prove Anne's innocence and clear her name in England, for the rest of Christendom knows that she is innocent. Elizabeth Tudor remains King Henry's only heir, and maybe she will succeed him in due time. I'm certain that you crave to have a Howard queen on the English throne. Let's ensure that Elizabeth's reign will not be besmirched by the past._

 _If a small part of you cares for your two nieces or even just for the sake of power, accept my offer. The Lord forgives those who truly wish to atone for how they have lived._

 _François de Valois, King of France_

Bryan's voice took Norfolk out of his reverie. "Why?"

"For power." The duke's mouth lengthened in a wolfish smirk. "Jane Seymour cannot bear the king a son, just as his other wives could not. As the Lady Mary Tudor is considered a bastard and barred from the line of succession, Elizabeth can become the first queen regnant in England's history. I wish to see my great-niece on the throne, not a weak Seymour brat."

"Lady Mary is a Catholic," put Bryan.

"I vote for Elizabeth, despite my beliefs." There was a ring of finality in Norfolk's voice.

"The king might discard Queen Jane, remarry, and have his precious prince."

Norfolk looked the other man in the eye. "Do you believe what you say?"

Francis Bryan eased himself into an elaborately carved chair. "He can take another wife. He is no longer in love with Jane. Soon someone else will take her place."

The duke's gaze fell on a nearby tapestry depicting their sovereign in youth. "Once Henry Tudor was a young, athletic, and virile Renaissance prince. Over time, he transmuted into a burly, narcissistic, and crippled king who now is not capable of participating in a tournament, let alone any sort of swordfight. Over the course of time, he has continuously failed to sire a strong son on all of his wives. Will he be able to produce healthy male progeny at an older age?"

They were alone, but Bryan lowered his voice. "Do you mean that his seed is failing?"

Howard shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps." His mouth quirked. "I would rather believe that Anne will give François a son than that Henry will ever have a _healthy_ male heir."

Mischief manifested in his companion's expression. "François is a libertine, just like me. He must be bedding my cousin every day and night, for she is a lovely creature."

"Perhaps." Truth be told, Norfolk wanted his niece to have a son. "I've chosen my side."

"Is there any other reason for your alliance with François?" Bryan's voice was insistent.

The duke scowled. "Francis, do not be so insolent with the highest peer of the realm."

Thomas Howard paced to and fro. The remembrances of George's and Anne's trials struck his consciousness, smashing him into dust and whirling the dust away into the infinity of his guilt. He had condemned his niece and his nephew to death in order to disassociate himself from them when he could have lost his privileges and offices. Yet, part of him regretted that.

Bryan's mordant laugh boomed through the vaulted study. "Your Grace of Norfolk, I cannot be intimidated, and I find your behavior hilarious. You abandoned Anne and George, but saved Mary. If His Majesty had learned of your _noble_ deed, he would have signed your death warrant."

As if ignoring him, Norfolk plunged deeper into reflection. He recalled the note he had received from his elder sister – Lady Elizabeth Boleyn née Howard – that she had sent him before her departure to France. When she had thanked him for Mary's salvation, he had realized that he had missed the brother-sisterly connection that they had shared in childhood. The carpet depicting a colorful map of England took the brunt of his nervousness as he paced agitatedly.

Ceasing to move in the center, Howard told himself as if he were alone, "Power is more important than any family connections." Yet, a large part of him craved Elizabeth's respect.

Tipping his head back, Francis Bryan laughed. In between the gusts of laughter, he coughed out words. "We are both addicted to power. I, too, will be the French ruler's ally."

Unfolding the parchment, Bryan re-read the letter that the duke had already seen today.

 _Sir Francis,_

 _As far as my queen and I are aware, you did not participate in Anne's downfall. Yet, you distanced yourself from the Boleyn family and did nothing to defend them, just as no one did._

 _You possess the uncanny ability to always remain in the royal favor. You love power and wealth; so far, you have not rendered an essential service to your country. Now you have the chance to do something good for England and yourself. If you help me restore Anne's good name in England, Elizabeth will be eternally grateful to you, and if she takes the throne in years to come, you will keep yourself in her highest favor. The benefits you can reap are obvious._

 _I've also written to His Grace of Norfolk. You may discuss our alliance with him._

 _King François I of France_

Finally, the Duke of Norfolk seated himself into a dark walnut armchair, adorned with the Howard coat-of-arms. "François de Valois is as sly as a fox, as powerful as the God Zeus after he vanquished the emperor. He is skilled at coaxing people into doing his bidding, and he possesses more than enough fortitude and acumen to implement his vengeance plan."

"Indeed," Bryan concurred. "I must admit that George's death saddened me a lot, for he was an honorable man, unlike most courtiers. Although I distanced myself from the Boleyns, I was relieved that Anne was spared and left for France. I'm glad that Mary is now with her."

"Anne has accomplished the unachievable: she became the second woman in history after Eleanor of Aquitaine who married two kings." There was a touch of pride in the duke's voice.

Francis Bryan bobbed his head. "Yes, that is incredible."

Thomas Howard wondered, "Imagine if Anne bears a son for the French monarch. That would be entertaining for my niece and her new husband, as well as for Elizabeth's supporters. That would serve as the evidence of our sovereign's inability to have sons."

Bryan surmised, "The Tudor temper will destroy us, then."

"Cromwell! I want that lowborn bastard dead," the Duke of Norfolk hissed.

"Me too." They both loathed Thomas Cromwell.

Norfolk quizzed, "So, are we together in this?"

Francis Bryan made up his mind. "Yes. Will you write to His French Majesty?"

"I shall." Norfolk picked up a quill and began composing a letter.

The two men were thrilled at the idea of their collaboration. Norfolk had a unique ability to form and manage political alliances; Bryan was an unscrupulous man of questionable morals. Neither of them shrank from crafty and vile means, which could draw them closer to their goal of amassing power and riches. Teamed together, they were an unstoppable force of ambition.

* * *

 _Hello, my dear readers! Please, let me know what you think about this chapter. Thank you very much in advance. I need inspiration!_

 _Anne and Françoise de Foix are becoming close friends. A spoiler: they will be inseparable in years to come. Françoise is one of my favorite female characters._

 _Elisabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire and of Ormonde, entered the stage, having left England for good. There was some insight into her marriage to Thomas Boleyn in this chapter, and I wonder what you think of their relationship. Mary and Elizabeth team up to influence Anne so that Anne becomes more attentive to the king. Part of Anne is interested in and physically attracted to François, who was quite a handsome man according to contemporary sources. At this stage, Anne does not love the King of France; at first, they need to become friends._

 _I'm answering your question about Thomas Boleyn in advance. He will appear in this fiction later when we need him, and he will be a necessary character for my Italian plots._

 _Madeleine de Valois died in the summer of 1537, just as it happened in history. I pity the girl, but her value as a character would be equal to zero in this AU. So, Marie de Guise will marry James of Scotland. France will be allied with Scotland in years to come (the old Auld Alliance), but François will be entirely focused on European politics, especially Italian wars._

 _Dauphin Henri… He is not always frigid: there is a cauldron of emotions boiling inside of him, but he hides them behind the cold façade. Despite their rivalry at court and even more for their father's love, Henri loves his brother Charles. Now when I'm writing the part covering events between 1544 and 1547, Henri has become one of my favorite characters. My Henri is very much like his historical version, but I've made him a somewhat better man._

 _François began weaving intrigues in England. His main goal is not even revenge – it is to prove his wife's innocence to Henry and the rest of England. I'm deliberately making the Duke of Norfolk a better version of himself in this fiction because I want to create his refreshing portrayal – Norfolk will be allied only with Anne, not with Mary Tudor, even though he will be practical and cruel, just as he was in history._ _Later, Anne will understand that her greatest revenge is to be happy with Henry's life-long rival and enemy – François._

 _Attention! I have a poll about the possible appearance of Mary Queen of Scots. Not now, many, very many chapters later – in the part about religious wars after François' death. I am still not sure I need Mary Queen of Scots; to be honest, I've never been her ardent fan. But I'd like to know your opinion because what will happen years later depends on what happens at present._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	23. Chapter 22: The Oath of Fealty

**Chapter 22: The Oath of Fealty**

 ** _August 29, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France_**

The end of summer turned out to be splendid, and the sun was high in the firmament. Shimmering in their garments of golden brocades, the Valois couple entered the Grand' Salle, where French nobles, knights, together with their esquires and pages, assembled. There were few women in the chamber on this occasion because men were mostly peers of the French realm.

In silence, men all bowed, women all curtsied to their sovereigns. The huge chamber was literally paved with faces, as if every French lord, whether masters of small fiefdoms or vast, rich estates dotted throughout the country, was now there at their liege lord's call.

King François greeted, "Thank you for coming here, my beloved subjects."

The stillness was broken by ebullient cheers, which resounded like rolls of thunder.

"We won the war against the emperor, thanks be to God!"

"Our great King François returned to us victorious!"

"The Knight-King crushed the Holy Roman Empire!"

"We expelled the invaders, God curse them for all eternity!"

"France is free! We are free! Thanks to King François!"

"Glory to our legendary sovereign and his generals!"

Standing next to her husband, Queen Anne blanched. An accustomed sense of unease stirred within her as her mind floated back to her erstwhile life. Even after England's break with Rome, the English populace loved their monarch, blaming her for all of Henry's transgressions. Loving France as her second home, Anne had hoped that the French would appreciate her role in their victory over the House of Habsburg, but they seemed to have forgotten about it.

"It will be all right." François touched his wife's hand and squeezed it.

Anne schooled her features into indifference. "I do not want their love."

"You do," he unveiled her lie. "Give them more time, wife."

The dam of her calmness had broken. She whispered so quietly that only he could hear her, "I'm a heretic in their eyes. Will they accept a Protestant queen on the French throne?"

"They will," he assured. "I don't think of it as a priority just now."

"And what is more important to Your Majesty?"

"Their oath of fealty _to us_ ," François said curtly, lacing their fingers together.

The couple walked to the two massive, ebony thrones under a canopy of crimson silk.

Two ushers were stationed at a door at the farther end of the great hall. At the couple's approach, the herald made an announcement, and this door was thrown open. Queen Marguerite of Navarre and her husband walked in. King Henri II of Navarre, together with his only surviving legitimate heiress, Jeanne d'Albert, had recently come from Navarre to the capital of France.

Dauphin Henri, Prince Charles, and Princess Marguerite followed their aunt and uncle. Queen Anne's relatives trailed after them, conversing with Charles amicably.

The French ruler and his wife seated themselves into their thrones; the Navarrese spouses occupied two closest throne-like chairs. The members of the royal family settled themselves into a row of matching armchairs under a canopy of purple silk. After making obeisance to the royals, the others crowded the room, each trying to be as close to the ruler's seat as possible.

"My beloved subjects!" The monarch got to his feet. "We were attacked by Imperial barbarians, and many people gave their lives to resist the enemy. God bless their souls!"

A chorus of concurrence exploded in the air. Many crossed themselves.

As a hush fell, the ruler continued, "But it was not France's destiny to become a colony of Spain. The Almighty's will is that our country was and will always remain an independent kingdom with our own magnificent culture and heritage. God's grace is abundant, and it empowers His children to overcome and be triumphant, giving me the divine right to rule our land."

After a moment's pause, the monarch declared, "We won the bloody war and ejected the vile invaders thanks to your tremendous courage and your love for our country. So, I congratulate all of you on our legendary victory, and on the ultimate triumph of good over evil."

As they cried with delight, Anne's gaze roved over the polychrome statues of the Capetian and Valois kings on the pillars and columns, lingering on the statue of François I.

François waved his hand for silence. "We must all thank my dear wife, Queen Anne. She played a crucial role in the creation of the anti-Habsburg coalition, the members of which are now our allies." Locking his gaze with his spouse's, he affirmed, "I thank my queen for saving my life during the war, and for providing us with wise counsel as to our strategy against the emperor."

The congregation's reaction to their sovereign's praise of his consort was deathly silence. The grayness of their discontent shadowed their countenances, as they wondered how much Anne would influence their liege lord and his policies. The sad truth was that most of the French lords – even those who admired Anne – feared of having a Protestant queen on the French throne.

Yet, there was a smile on Anne's face. "Thank you, sire," she told her husband.

François answered benevolently, "You are most welcome, Madame."

Queen Marguerite of Navarre promulgated, "Personally, I wish to thank my sister-in-law as well. If not for her bravery, my dearest brother would have been murdered in Chamerolles."

Being an outspoken youth, Prince Charles declared, "I adore Queen Anne! Our country is forever in debt to her!" His warm gaze met his stepmother's. "She is France's savior!"

Anne sent her youngest stepson a cordial smile. The expressions of her relatives were as bright as the summer sun in the cloudless sky. The Navarrese rulers flashed genial smiles.

Among nobles, only Anne de Montmorency and Claude d'Annebault let out smiles. For a split second, the Duke Claude de Guise's expression contorted in abhorrence, and some of his Catholic friends lowered their eyes to hide their loathing for their liege lord's spouse.

Their antagonism towards Anne threatened to cause the arched wooden roof, together with a row of columns in the center supporting its framework, to crumble, burying her beneath it.

The King of France's imperial voice ceased the whisperings. "Now you all have to take the oath of fealty to me and your new queen, regardless of your preferences and religion."

"Gladly," Montmorency and Annebault said as they genuflected in front of the thrones.

During the next hour, the nobles were swearing their fealty to the Valois monarchs. Most of those in attendance had gone through the same solemn proceeding years ago after François' accession in 1515. Today the ruler compelled them to give the promise of faithful service to him once more because of the necessity to ensure their allegiance to his new _controversial_ queen.

After it was over, Anne lamented, "Most of them did that unwillingly."

"It matters not," François claimed. "You are my queen, and nothing will change that."

"I'm unwanted here," she persevered. "No one likes being forced to do anything."

He could not deny that, sighing. "Calm down."

"Some hate me." The queen intercepted the glares of the Duke de Guise and his brothers.

François' next speech restored Anne's confidence. "My subjects, it is your duty to serve loyally not only me, but also your heroic queen. Never ignore your duty to her!"

Montmorency pronounced, "Long Live King François and Queen Anne!"

The gathering echoed the Constable of France's cry with some uneasy murmurings.

"Will Her Majesty convert into Catholicism?" Chabot asked straightforwardly.

François glared at his advisor. "France follows the course of religious tolerance."

Anne suppressed a grimace. "His Majesty permitted me to keep my faith."

The monarch stated, "Queen Anne's coronation will take place in a few weeks."

The king stood up and extended his hand to his spouse. The courtiers all bowed to them.

§§§

As the Valois couple marched down the corridor, there was not much to make out of the king's blank expression. He knitted his brows as they approached the presence chamber, and Anne surmised that he was more eager to retire to his quarters than stay in her company.

The King and Queen of France walked into the room, where ambassadors had gathered.

The foreign envoys roared with ecstatic screams. At present, the entirety of Christendom – even those Catholics who would never abjure the Pope's authority and the Catholic doctrine – absolutely adored and revered her husband, who was now known as _King François I of France the Victorious, François I of France the Bravest_ , and _the Legendary Valois Liberator._

The spouses ceased moving in the center of the chamber. The royal entourage, including Montmorency, Chabot, Annebault, and Tournon, stopped behind them.

Instantly, all of the ambassadors swept deep bows, tinged with a mixture of admiration, respect, servility, and anticipation. The exception was Sir Nicholas Wotton, who was the English ambassador to France; his bow was as low as it was necessary in accordance with etiquette.

Dismissing them from formalities, the monarch spoke. "We are delighted to see you here, although your liege lords, who participated in the war against the Holy Roman Empire, departed for their lands a while ago. Please, send to your masters our best wishes of long life and prosperous reign. France, the House of Valois, and personally I shall never forget their aid."

The response was the diplomats' nods and congratulations on the king's victory.

Taking his wife's hand in his left hand, François waved his other hand for silence. "It is not my triumph – it is my people's triumph! Without the courage and resistance of my soldiers, I would not have ended the emperor's aggression. Our victory would not have been possible without the assistance of all your sovereigns, and France is forever in debt to them."

The envoy from Hesse declared with his thick German accent, "My master, Landgrave Philip of Hesse, will never stop thanking the illustrious Queen Anne of France for assisting all of the German Protestant and Lutheran princes in assembling forces against the Habsburgs."

François turned with a sweeping gesture towards his wife. "My wife, Anne, is the symbol of our alliance with foreign reformers and of our resistance against the power-hungry Spaniards."

The cheers were very loud as the ambassadors nodded in frenzied excitement.

"Thank you, my lords," Anne affirmed with royal dignity, her French perfect and without any accent. "I wed King François because he proposed to me. Later I worked hard, together with him and his councilors, as his consort on behalf of _our_ realm. I swear that I acted in accordance with the will of God, not for any worldly aggrandizement, not for the gratification of the flesh, and not for benefits and privileges, which I could derive from the union with my husband. I genuinely strove to save France out of my love for this great country, where I spent several years in childhood and adolescence, and where I shall be buried as her queen when the Lord calls me home."

The next round of applause was much louder than the previous one. The ambassadors of Hesse and of Palantine rewarded Anne with screams of reverence for her speech. Diplomats from Sweden and Norward swept deep bows and lavished her with compliments.

"Thank you." The queen was pleased to feel the approving squeeze of her spouse's hand.

A middle-aged man, clad in a doublet of black satin paned with orange, strode over to the king. His mantle of black brocade was embroidered with gold, as was the collar of the Golden Fleece around his neck. His grizzled hair and beard were trimmed in the Spanish fashion.

The newcomer made quite a reluctant, yet not shallow, bow. "Your Majesty, I am Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle. His Imperial Majesty, Carlos V, appointed me his ambassador to France. I ask you for an audience so that I may hand to you my letters of credence from the emperor." His French was quite good and easy to comprehend, in spite of his sonorous Flemish accent.

His spies had warned François about this meeting beforehand. "Monsieur de Granvelle, welcome to our court, the most cultured one in Europe." His mouth twitched in a mockery of a smile. "Carlos has displayed rationality on this occasion, although in the past, during the Battle of Pavia for example, he showed the cunning of a serpent. As I do not wish to talk to any Spaniard, he sent a Burgundian to negotiate the terms and conditions of his brother Ferdinand's release."

Cardinal de Tournon explained the man's identity to Anne. A Burgundian politician, Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle served as a trusted advisor to the emperor. His sovereign had made him suzerain of the Imperial city of Besançon and given him a serious position in Flanders.

Granvelle regarded his master's nemesis with interest. "You know why I'm here."

The monarch's twist of his lips looked like crawling snakes to the other man. "Carlos has no principles of virtue, religion, chivalry, or friendship. Power, the Inquisition, campaigns in the New World and Africa, and his far-famed devotion to his wife – these are all that he lays to heart. Carlos is true to nothing, not even to his mother, Queen Juana of Castile, whom his grandfather imprisoned an eternity ago. I wonder whether he is loyal to his younger brother."

Everyone kept silent, for the king's countenance illustrated the wisdom of not heeding.

At last, Granvelle riposted, "Your Majesty is not right about my master. He–"

"Your master and I spent a lot of time in Madrid," François cut him off with a scathing grin. "You are probably not aware that good manners such as courtesy are appreciated as much as bad manners such as disrespect to a foreign monarch are abhorred. Nonetheless, poor manners cost nothing materially, so the empty treasury of Spain and her empire will not lose more."

A chorus of snickering resounded and diminished at the wave of the king's hand.

The ruler continued, "Monsieur de Granvelle, Ferdinand is kept in luxury, living like a monarch who has everything save his freedom – nothing bad will happen to him. I shall not tell you where Ferdinand is to prevent you from stealing him. Carlos invaded our country, and we drove him out. Now let his brother languish in our prison in repayment for what the emperor did to me and my two sons years ago." Swiveling to his councilors, he quizzed, "Is my verdict fair?"

Sniggering, the spectators tipped their heads and laughed again.

Anne de Montmorency jested, "Solitude is a solitary boat floating in a sea. His Majesty King of Hungary, Bohemia, and Croatia Ferdinand von Habsburg, who is also King of the Romans, has wonderful companions – hundreds of books. Ah, what a notable prisoner with many titles we have! He has a rare chance to educate himself about everything in life."

Anne nodded at the Spanish diplomat with an air of irresistible wit. "The loneliness of King Ferdinand is proof that his innate search for connection with human knowledge is intact, despite his military losses. François, will books inspire hope in Ferdinand?"

The monarch kissed her hand. "Certainly, wife."

She jested, "So many books, so little time to remember about the emperor."

All, save Wotton and Granvelle, were thrilled and burst out laughing.

The king looked a shocked Granvelle in the eye. "Tell His vanquished Imperial Majesty that I shall not release Ferdinand at least for a year. There will be no negotiations about it."

The royals strutted to the exit, their heads held higher than usual, followed by advisors.

Before quitting the room, François noticed the English ambassador. "She is fury, she is wrath, she is vengeance. It sounds poetical, but it is all about my Anne. I shall help her."

Wotton blanched. "Sire, my king will be very–"

"I shall never stop thanking your liege lord for my exile," Anne uttered blandly, but with a wicked look. "In France, I have a true friend – my husband – to assist me in serving justice."

Wotton bowed stiffly. "Your Majesties." He would not report the case to Henry Tudor.

The spouse smiled at one another. They laughed as Wotton escaped from them.

As Their Majesties made their way out, their victorious joy was seen in their every step. However, in the hallway a surge of coldness swept between them, and their smiles waned.

§§§

In the corridor, they met Queen Marguerite of Navarre, surrounded by Navarrese nobles. Despite her residence at the Valois court, some of her husband King Henri of Navarre's courtiers came to France from time to time. Marguerite also had her spies at her spouse's court.

The lords from Navarre all bowed to the French royal couple. Then they were dismissed.

"Margot!" François beckoned her. "Nicolas de Granvelle has arrived."

His sister approached him. "I know; I don't like this man."

Anne interjected, "He wants to start negotiations about King Ferdinand."

François plunged into reflection. "Can we make Ferdinand our ally?"

Marguerite looked pensive as well. "If Ferdinand somehow becomes our _ally_ and even a _friend_ , we will be able to _drive a wedge between the two Habsburg brothers_ over time."

The king affirmed, "Perhaps, but their enmity is not my priority. Ferdinand is different from the emperor – he is more honorable, less warmongering, and far less fanatical in his beliefs."

"They both invaded France," Anne pointed out.

Marguerite tilted her head. "Indeed, but Ferdinand obeyed Carlos." Her eyes flew to the monarch. "The intelligence our spies regularly collect from foreign courts suggests that Ferdinand is a better person than Carlos. But Ferdinand has always been very loyal to the emperor."

"Yes," said the ruler. "But why can't he become our ally and advocate peace with France? Carlos would not like that, but at least, we would have a Habsburg who is not our foe."

The ruler's sister approved, "That would be good. But how to accomplish that?"

François shrugged. "That remains to be seen."

Anne meditated, "Whatever ransom you demand from Spain for Ferdinand will not be paid anytime soon because their treasury is empty. The state income in Ferdinand's own domains – Hungary, Bohemia, and Croatia – will be used to finance their combat against the Turks."

Marguerite continued in the same vein, "Territories… I highly doubt that Carlos would wish to grant France any lands for his brother's release. Most likely, during the next year or two, Carlos will focus upon his empire's internal problems, and only later, he will return to Ferdinand's situation. In this case, our notable captive will feel betrayed by his sibling."

The king smiled like a fox. "It may become the beginning for our plan."

"Yes!" His sister tipped her head. "Then we would offer Ferdinand some _bargain_."

Anne supported, "Offended by Carlos, he would be desperate to regain his freedom."

"I want the Duchy of Milan," François announced with supreme eagerness. "Margot, we are descendants of Valentina Visconti, Duchess d'Orléans. As now there are no male descendants of the Sforza family which once ruled Milan, it rightfully belongs to us – not to Spain."

Marguerite touched her collar. "Milan is an Imperial domain. Ferdinand cannot give it."

The king grinned whimsically. "Actually, Ferdinand may do many things. Carlos made him King of the Romans six years ago, making Ferdinand his designated heir to the Holy Roman Empire. Some craft applied, and Ferdinand can help us get what we want."

The Queen of Navarre summed up, "For now, let the emperor's brother read books."

Laughing jocundly, they strolled into another presence chamber.

§§§

Three richly attired courtiers, each gloomier than night, hid themselves in the Tour de l'Horloge, where the dramatic scene between the king and queen had occurred weeks earlier.

"These are dark days for France," one of them complained.

Another man hissed, "Today is the most scandalous day in France's history. The nobility had to swear their loyalty to the whorish and heretical queen of France. It is a cursed day."

"I have a plan," piped a clear voice from behind them.

"Will you contact our Catholic friends?" quizzed the first courtier.

The third speaker nodded. "Of course, and we need to talk both to the Italian and to the Pope. However, it will not be easy to dispose of that Boleyn witch. The king seems to have developed feelings for her, or he would not have banished all of his lovers from court."

"Can we kill her before the coronation?" someone inquired.

"No!" the leader of the conspirators denied. "Caution is a must! Months may pass before a suitable moment comes. We can act only with the approval of His Holiness, and to exchange letters with him via secured channels will take time." Sighing, he added, "As for François, we must consider the outcomes – good and bad – of assassination. I'm not sure we need him dead."

Suddenly, another man in rich red robes entered and declared, "King François will live as long as he does not succumb to the harlot's witchery. If he becomes enamored of her too much, we will not need him. France must have a king who is capable of ruling on his own."

One of the others concurred, "We have Henri if François must be disposed of."

Everyone dipped their heads. They needed to think through all the possible scenarios and consequences before proceeding to the deed. They would cleanse their homeland from heresy.

* * *

 ** _September 9, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France_**

François kept distance from Anne. He left her alone with her doubts and fears again. To discuss her marital situation, the Countess of Wiltshire insisted that the queen dismiss her ladies, and when it was done, the Matriarch of the Boleyn family stared at her forbiddingly.

"Go to your husband, Anne," Elizabeth prodded.

Anne settled herself into an ancient ebony chair adorned with precious stones. "Don't be so worried about my spouse's unhappiness. He has many mistresses to comfort him."

"None of them is now here," Mary chided.

For hours, they argued with Anne. Eventually, silence percolated between them, and they did not speak until outside twilight purpled the clouds and the distant outlines of Parisian buildings.

Elizabeth drew her attention back to the topic at hand. "Recently, the _Catholic_ king made all of his knights and nobles swear the oath of fealty and vassalage to their new _Protestant_ queen. They complied with his order whether they are Catholics or not. Do you think they will be loyal to you, Anne, knowing that their queen is distant from their heroic liege lord?"

Mary's shake of the head expressed her concurrence. "They shall be willing to crush you like a sparrow. They love their sovereign, but most of them do not harbor affection for you."

"I know," conceded Anne in a strangled voice. "People hated me in England. They are not fond of me in France, despite my contribution to France's victory over the emperor."

Mary and Elizabeth took the seats in front of the queen's chair.

The Countess of Wiltshire opined, "Anne, you are driving the courtiers – thanks be to God not the common folk – away. The nobles know that you are the king's wife only in name. You are afraid of François' power, but you two cannot always avoid each other."

Despite her currently warmer relationship with the Valois ruler, Anne did not have a speck of interest in further improving it. Or did she? She was caught up in a net of confusion as to what she really felt for her spouse. She was gradually beginning to like her marriage to the King of France, who had so far permitted her to remain independent to a significant degree.

Elizabeth read her thoughts with ease. "You are attracted to His Majesty."

"Yes." The queen's voice was barely audible.

"That's a start." The countess tucked a long tendril of hair behind her ear.

Mary's thirst for vengeance twisted her countenance. "We must avenge our woes. You must have a son, Anne! A bonny Valois prince! Henry will suffer so much, then."

A snarl of hatred contorted Anne's face. "I do hate Henry more than I ever loved him."

Their mother concurred, "Nothing will hurt Henry more than the knowledge that you have birthed a male child fathered by his French counterpart, whom he has always loathed."

Of course, her relatives were correct! Thus, the queen would need to repudiate the deal that she had imposed on the Valois ruler. She usually conceived quickly. A few weeks in François' bed would be enough to plant the seeds of her future triumph over Henry in her belly.

Mary coughed. "Anne, I had affairs, so I'm far more experienced than you."

Irritably, the queen noted, "With both of my husbands."

"Let the past remain in the past," Mary said strictly. "I have to touch upon a very private theme. Out of all the men whom I knew carnally, François is the most unselfish and generous lover, extravagant in his amorous habits and artistic in the way he behaves with a woman."

Anne blushed profusely. "I'll not listen to that."

Elizabeth shook her head. "This aspect is vitally important."

Mary's expression was apologetic. "I'm trying to help you understand your spouse." As Anne nodded curtly, her sister divulged, "François is a God of romantic sensuality. It is one of the reasons why most of his former paramours were or are strongly infatuated with him. Be with him without any restraints, and François will open to you many salacious secrets – you will appreciate them. For a married couple, it is not a sin, if it makes you feel less embarrassed."

Anne's blush deepened like a sunburn. "Enough!"

Elizabeth supported her eldest daughter. "Mary says right things. Enjoy your marriage, Annie. Have a son with His Valois Majesty, or perhaps even two or more bonny boys. Prove to King Henry and the whole world that the lack of males in the Tudor line is not your fault."

"I'll try," conceded Anne at last.

Mary stood up. "Tonight, you will seduce King François _the Victorious_."

Elizabeth and Mary assisted Anne in getting rid of her gown. Mary brought a gorgeous robe of azure satin embroidered with gold, and a matching nightgown. Their mother brushed the queen's hair like the finest smooth black silk, with sweet-smelling liquids massaged into Anne's scalp so it tingled, and then had it draped over one of Anne's shoulders in a delicate wave.

§§§

As Queen Anne stopped near the entrance to the king's rooms, the guards bowed. She swung open the door, walked in, and blinked in surprise, as she did not see François at first.

"Your Majesty," she called, but there was no response.

Left to herself, the queen sighed and surveyed the spacious chamber. With its white, blue, and golden brocade-curtained large bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, the chamber seemed to be breathing with freshness and grandeur. Every candle was lit, and the orange light gilded the heavy ebony furniture and accentuated the shadows in the corners, giving the place the mysterious air of something inevitable and fabulous that would transform Anne's whole life tonight.

As she beheld a portrait of King François over the old stone fireplace, which belonged to the time of Philippe IV the Fair, her heart leaped. It was a copy of the monarch's portrait made by Jean Clouet seven years earlier, about 1530, while the original painting was kept at Amboise.

Anne surveyed the ruler on the portrait again, letting her thoughts wander. Most women who had ever seen those clever amber eyes, emanating charming warmth, and those saturnine, yet patrician features, thin and sensual lips curved in a wordless challenge or in a mischievous grin, would not ever forget this man. His long Valois nose spoke of his royal breeding, but despite it being the only imperfection on his face, it made his features more remarkable and expressive.

The king's voice intruded into her musings. "Has time altered me a lot?"

Her eyes flew to him, and her heart sped. "No, sire."

"Why have you come here, Anne? That is unexpected after all your antics. But as cruelty is more easily borne than coldness, I must admit I am not vexed."

Anne admitted, "Women are made to soothe, to pity, to comfort, and to delight."

His fatigue suddenly gone, he crossed to a couch and shrugged off his doublet of auburn damask worked with threads of silver. Placing it there, he sought her with his gaze. She froze in the center of the room, her scrutiny locked with his, and a light bloom of pink colored her cheeks.

"Let's talk." She was awash with relief that her husband was still wearing a shirt.

Nascent hope filled his chest. A peal of laughter boomed like the autumn thunderstorm. "Embarrassment must be a foreign feeling to a bold woman such as yourself, Anne."

At this, single-minded determination sprang into life in her. "Boldness is not something you are born with – you either choose it or you do not, and today I do."

Anne plodded to the bed like a scared damsel unable to evade a suitor. In silence charged with his eager anticipation and her unspoken fears and shame, she discarded her robe and settled herself onto the bed, leaning against the pillows she had propped up against the headboard, adorned with the Valois heraldry. The queen's nightgown was buttoned all the way to her throat.

He swallowed heavily. "What do you want, Anne?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Slight irritation colored her tone.

François strode over to the bed and sat down on the edge. Scratching his temple as if in thought, he eyed her with suspicion. "You have done everything – possible and impossible – to ensure that we will not be husband and wife in all senses. Have you changed your opinion?"

She leaned forward, resting a hand upon his shoulder. "Like you, I do not want to live in this sham of a marriage for the rest of our lives. I crave to find at least a semblance of peace." She was driven by a different motive, but she had told him the truth as well.

"Happiness is a choice: you may choose to be happy or live in grief."

"I want to try and be your spouse." Her voice trembled like a drop of water on a leaf.

Turning his attention to his boots, François untied them and kicked them off, not giving any thought to where they landed. "Once I promised you a wonderful wedding night, and you had it. I'll make this night as awesome as the best rendezvous of Zeus and Hera's were."

She smiled at him. "Are you a man of action or not?"

"Don't doubt that! I am the Knight-King!" He silenced his consort's next remark by pressing his lips to hers and sliding his hand to the back of her head.

His kiss was tender and tentative, as if he were afraid to frighten her by this soft expression of his affection, which François would not confess to her in the near future. Anne was not ready for love: it would take her time to recover from the trauma inflicted upon her by Henry.

The monarch ceased the kiss. "You told me that you did not wish to increase my progeny. If we renew marital relations, you will get pregnant again. Do you understand it?"

His wife tipped her head. "Of course."

"That is not all," he countered. His thumb stilled, but he didn't remove his hand from her cheekbone. "There is something else, Anne. I can see it in your eyes."

A vague contrition stirred in the queen. _Indeed, Your Majesty. I'm hiding that I crave to have a son for my revenge on Henry._ Nothing would ever be as painful for that Tudor beast as the fact that Anne was capable of bearing his rival's sons. Yet, her delight was blemished by the guilt that was chilling her insides, as if they had been aggravated by the rigors of severe weather.

She inquired for distraction, "I wonder how many women you have bedded in your life."

"Very many." He would bet no other king was asked such a question by anyone.

"Like every bridegroom, you took vows during the wedding ceremony to be faithful to your wife – to me. Yet, men, especially rulers, never honor them, and you did not for a year."

His finger smoothed the furrow between her eyes. "I did not at first, but I plan to."

Anne tugged the sleeve of his shirt towards her. "I can hardly believe you."

Groaning, François pulled her fingers from his shirt. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he peeled off the upper part of her nightgown. "Call me by my name."

"François," she echoed as his lips found her pulse point, sucking on her hot skin.

His hands caressed her breasts through the nightgown. "I'm itching to see you nude."

Following his lead, the queen whisked the garment off over her head. "Your turn."

His eyes aflame, the king examined her figure. His spouse had long lost her baby weight, and now her shapely body was firm, with long legs and wonderfully formed small breasts. _I want her as much as I never wanted anyone before,_ he inferred, his gaze drinking in her nakedness and darkening in desire. _But I've never loved any other woman – Anne is my first love. This is not an act of marital duty for me – this is the expression of my love for this strong-souled lady._

The ruler grinned. "Are you so impatient to see me without garments?"

Her fingers touched his shirt's collar. "I'm accustomed to getting what I want." His shirt undone soon, she teased, "I'm the Goddess Minerva, and I fear nothing."

His world was singing a tune of infinite joy. "My kingly rank has its advantages. I'm the only one who can undress my Minerva. You can assist me in ridding of my clothes, too."

Their laughed together, and the sound was like tinkling little bells in the air.

After François had removed his hose, Anne gasped at the first sight of his aroused body. In spite of her discomfort during the consummation, she had seen enough of him. Now she had the opportunity to examine him in detail, thinking that his long, lean, and muscled body was built to be worshipped like Apollo's statue in an ancient shrine. _François is not as burly and broad in chest and back as Henry has become over time, and I must say that I like his physique a lot._

The monarch cupped the nape of her neck. "I want to have another daughter with you." He kissed her hair lustily. "A girl with your dark eyes as enigmatic as mythological Cassandra, and with your hair as black as a moonless night. A daughter resembling her mother."

"Another female child?" Anne's tone was colored with disbelief. "Not a son?"

He nuzzled her ear. "Aimée de Valois – France's 'beloved' girl."

She trailed kisses to the edge of his ear. "And for a boy?"

"Augustin de Valois." His amber eyes were now almost black. "In honor of the Roman Emperor Caesar Augustus – one of the most remarkable rulers the world has ever seen."

"These are unusual names." She had the time to catch her breath. Her fingers massaged his back muscles, kneading and stroking. "I might be unable to give you a brood of sons."

The ruler's intense gaze impaled her. "Anne, I'm yearning to make our marriage happy. However, I am not Henry: I shall never demand only male heirs from you."

"I've always wanted to have a large family. But my dreams were crushed."

His mouth trailed a fiery path of kisses along her jaw line. "You may have it with me, if God wills it. You and I are both healthy and young enough to see all of our dreams come true." He paused, his scrutiny fixed upon her eyes. "But I have my own terms, wife."

"Which ones?" Anne clutched his shoulders impulsively.

François stipulated, "You will never deny me the marriage bed. I endured enough of your coldness, and I do not wish any other arrangements between us. I shall be faithful to you."

Her lips neared his. "Of course. I… did not mean to hurt you."

His hands caressed her back and then slid lower. "Let's forget everything bad."

"Now!" Anne pressed her length against his, reveling in his masculine hardness.

"I'll give you a great deal of pleasure. Something you will never forget."

"I trust you." And she meant it.

Amazingly, the queen had never trusted her Valois husband as much as she did at this moment. She did not love him, but her need to experience carnal rapture with him had long started tossing, humming, and buzzling in her essence. Yet, the next moment Anne shook off these sultry thoughts not to develop an emotional bond with him. _I'm attracted to François because he is a handsome man, but my most important mission is to bear his son_ , she tried to convince herself _._

As the king's lips captured hers with mind-blowing fervor, Anne responded in kind with emphatic urgency. The heat and red-blooded strength of his arms molded her tightly to his chest, where she felt his heart beating like one of a man reborn, as though their encounter had liberated some dormant energy and strength inside of him. His powerful assault on her senses personified the source of vivifying power that was breathing hope and new life into her battered soul.

Although before François had not experimented with his wife in bed, now his propensity for an audacious lovemaking prompted him to pour all of his feelings into his caresses. Her eyes grew wide in surprise, and her cheeks flushed as he touched Anne where no other man – not even Henry – had touched her before. While kissing her ardently, yet agonizingly slowly, he massaged the spot that was the sanctum of her femininity, and then slipped one finger inside her.

Anne blushed to the roots of her hair. "You should not–"

François interrupted her. "I'm your husband. Relax and just feel."

His kiss prevented her further protestations, and, instinctively, she tightened around him. He moved his finger out, then back in, setting up a regular rhythm that her body echoed, demanding a more intimate contact, as the blood thickened in her veins like warm honey. Cupping his hips in her hands, she pulled him closer, until his arousal brushed against her, next to his questing fingers.

"Not yet." His voice was throaty. "Too early, _ma chérie_."

Then his mouth was everywhere, scorching trails of kisses down her neck, her shoulders, over the swell of her breasts, down her abdomen until his head settled between her thighs.

"I never... François…" Both her hands threaded into his hair, she gave a loud gasp.

The queen longed for these marvelous sensations to last forever. She had never had such an experience with Henry, for their even most passionate encounters had been too fiery, and her former selfish husband cared more about his pleasure. François' tongue inside her drove Anne to the brink, only to back off and leave her hanging in midair, panting and begging him to fulfill the throbbing hollowness. As ecstasy convulsed through her, the king rose above her.

With a growl, François penetrated his wife with one long stroke. As her legs encircled his waist, he established the melodious rhythm, sliding ever so slightly, teasingly, into her and then withdrawing. She raised her hips to greet him, encouraging him deeper with each thrust.

For what seemed like an eternity, they rocked together like oceanic tides against the sand, first gently, then more fervidly and forcefully, until finally the monarch pounded into his queen as if he were Homer's Odysseus making love to his spouse, Penelope, to celebrate their reunion after long years of separation. Anne's cries were better than Orpheus' music to the ruler's ears, and the king thought that a woman might say more in a sigh than a priest can say in a sermon.

Moans, endearments, and shrieks resonated, as they danced an amorous tarantella, their sweat-slicked bodies rubbing together. Their movements were growing more frantic, their kisses tinged with an ever-increasing insanity. As he paused, Anne compelled him to flip over and ascended atop him, pinning him to the mattress. She straddled him, and François permitted her to take the lead, although Henry would have been reluctant to let Anne control their coupling.

François chuckled. "My spouse is in an authoritative mood today, isn't she?"

"Yes." With his entire masculine torso before her, Anne set about exploring it in detail, her tongue caressing the firm planes of his chest. "I'm the Queen of France, after all."

"You have become the seductress you have always been," he opined when she raised her head again. "I've always believed that you are as passionate as the Goddess Aphrodite."

His comment irked his consort because he had hinted at her once sensually romantic relationship with Henry. "Hopefully, our endeavors will let me conceive tonight."

"Is that why you wanted me to bed you and accepted my terms?"

"No!" His voice, which was as weak as that of a dying bird, pulled at her heartstrings.

Suddenly incensed, he grabbed her hands and, clasping them behind her back, made her move so that he would be atop of her again. "You want my son to extract vengeance upon Henry."

"Does it matter, François?" inquired the queen.

The monarch slammed into her like a sharp drumbeat. "It does, Anne."

Tears moistened her eyes. "I told you the truth! I cannot live in the darkness anymore."

"Do not weep, wife." He did not believe her, but he could not see her so distressed.

The ruler tempered his anger not to hurt her. As he continued slowly impaling her with his maleness, there was a haunting hollowness inside him darker than Hades. Although his soul was overflowing with a blend of fury and torment, his body yearned for release, so the king shut his eyes, joining them in a rhythm as old as humanity itself, melting into fragments of pure bliss.

"François!" Anne cried out in a barely coherent expression of ultimate pinnacle.

As she shuddered, the monarch thrust into her time and time again, his moans mingling with her shriek as he reached his own fulfillment. For minutes, they lay entwined, recovering from their voyage to the dizzying heights, and the queen felt his hot seed deep inside of her.

His hands softly caressing her, his lips kissing her hair, François declaimed his poem.

 _I drown my entire soul in your two eyes,_

 _As black as night that gives me paradise,_

 _Just looking into them – it does create_

 _The mad rapture of my frenzied soul._

 _I'm steeped in their allure and enigma,_

 _Am I damned by some heavenly stigma?_

 _I drown in two pools of black water,_

 _They are burning my heart hotter._

 _When these eyes shone like rainbows,_

 _They become two golden windows._

 _Their lucent fires burn me completely,_

 _Concretely, utterly, featly, and sweetly._

 _Burned to the cinders, I'm reborn again_

 _Thanks to these eyes and their golden rain –_

 _The strong rain of their hypnotizing allure,_

 _That falls upon the whole of me as a cure._

She lifted her head to contemplate his face. "Is it your poem?"

"Yes. In your honor." His lips slid down her back, planting kisses along her spine.

"Ah!" The queen found his caresses too exquisite for mortals, making her whole being quiver and come to life with shimmering gold. Mary was right about François' sensuality.

The king kissed her on the mouth. "Your eyes… Just the memory of them enkindles my soul with pure brightness. When you are with me, the stars appear to live, everything sparkles in the stillness, and the world blossoms with the divine immensity of goodness."

This enraptured Anne. "Then let us embrace like two sublime creatures which make the silence shimmer, the starts breathe, and the universe pulsate with elation." They were on the same wavelength, despite the absence of love on her part – the French king was truly artistic.

François took her twice more: gently as she lay on the back, then far more passionately, with many twists and turns of their bodies. They dozed and talked between the lovemaking.

Her train of thought went back to Isabella. "Your foe's wife wrote to me secretly."

A frown stretched across his forehead. "Carlos' wife? What does she want?"

Anne recited the woman's missive. "I suppose we cannot ally with Spain."

Her husband grimaced. "I respect Isabella, for she seems to be more sensible and kinder than Carlos. However, she is his consort! Philip, Prince of Asturias, is his son." Then a knavish grin curved his lips. "When time comes, I shall make a bargain with Ferdinand for his release."

"I understand. Any deal with Carlos is impossible." She sighed.

"I have something more interesting on my mind." His lingering kiss on the mouth spoke too eloquently. "Do you like when I kiss you here?" His lips found her collarbone and traced it.

"François," moaned his spouse. "Should I respond to Isabella?"

Pulling away from her, the ruler fixed her with a pointed expression. "Do not reply to that Spanish dog's queen – do not do anything behind my back and don't lie to me, Anne."

"I will not." His warning was serious, and Anne would not disobey.

François observed Anne's face that possessed unearthly beauty in repose. He hoped that one day, he would awaken in his wife that womanliness that was currently concealed from him, and then her sensual instincts would let them have many artful couplings. François was jealous of his Tudor counterpart, so far the only man to whom Anne had opened the innermost recesses of her soul. _I long for a time when she will be more trustful with me than she was with Henry._

§§§

Candles stood upon tables on either side of a canopied bed with bronze-inlaid bedposts and sheets of red silk. They cast a portentous orange glow about the apartments occupied by Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli. Flickering, agitated flames shifted shadows on the faces of two lovers sprawled in a languorous pose after the intercourse, making them appear malevolent.

Lucrezia Cavalcanti, the count's mistress, clambered out of their bed. Barefooted, she swept out of the bedchamber and into the dressing room, where she donned her robe.

"So, there was a letter," Lucrezia said in Italian as she returned to the bedroom.

Montecuccoli crept out of the bed nude like Adam. "Indeed. From His Holiness."

She embraced him from the back. "I want you again."

He disentangled from her. "A bit later, Madonna Cavalcanti."

Montecuccoli tiptoed to the door to check whether the lock was closed. Having done so, he put on his robe and walked to an ebony table encrusted with ivory. He rummaged through his papers until he found the document, then went back to the bed and seated himself on its edge.

Lucrezia followed suit. "Dauphine Catherine needs to know everything."

The precious letter from the Vicar of Rome was clasped in his hand, as if scalped as a trophy from his victims. He had received it through one of the Vatican's spies at the Valois court.

 _My son Sebastiano,_

 _Soon we will destroy that Boleyn demoness. She ensorcelled two monarchs and spread her heretical claws into the spiritual fabrics of two great Christian lands – England and France. She will be punished for her villainies, but God does not task you to perform this deed._

 _Instead, my loyal Count de Montecuccoli, you will stay at the side of Dauphine Catherine – our beloved Madonna Caterina. The Lord has appointed you to safeguard her for the Vatican. The death of Dauphin François was necessary to ensure that the Medici queen or her descendants, who are the true children of the Catholic Church, will keep France under the fold of the Roman faith. Do whatever Madonna Caterina commands you and rely upon her wisdom._

 _When the moment comes, my other allies at the Valois court will put our plan into motion. Tell Her Highness to watch and not to interfere. I'm blessing you with my holy hand, my son._

 _Pope Paul III_

"My master, His Holiness!" Montecuccoli kissed the sheet of paper over and over again. "I am your slave until my dying day. I shall do anything for Madonna Caterina and you!"

Frenetic words slipped from her mouth. "The Supreme Pontiff is the master of all human souls. Those who disappoint his most Christian person will be burning in hell."

Sebastiano and Lucrezia regarded each other like overzealous parishioners. There was a red chaos of evil in their rabid eyes, from which inquisitorial flames leaped aloft and waved snaky tongues, blood-red and molten gold as they fantasized of how the Pope would cleanse France and Europe from the heretics. They would assist Allessandro Farnese in everything.

Montecuccoli's heart pounded madly as he kissed Farnese's letter again. "His Holiness will be France's master. One day, Dauphine Catherine will rule this country."

Lucrezia emitted a sigh. "Her Highness needs to give Dauphin Henri a son at first."

"The rumor is that the accursed English Gorgon went to King François' quarters tonight. She is wrapping him into her swampy web of pagan charms – she might conceive."

An alarmed Lucrezia frowned. "Does His Holiness just want us to wait? Does he mean that he will dispose of both that Boleyn whore and Prince Charles? Can we just do something? Madonna Caterina's astrologers and you, Sebastiano, have many poisons."

"I shall not disobey the Supreme Pontiff, Lucrezia."

The count handed the letter to his paramour, who quickly read it and sighed.

"You are right." A wave of hatred towards Anne twisted Lucrezia in a tangle of rebellious resignation. "Madame Caterina is very cautious. She says that we have no right for a mistake."

Her lover tempered his impatience. "Her Highness has chosen the best course of action. If we must lay low for years before we destroy all the enemies of our Medici Queen together with the Pope's foes, then so be it. I'm skilled at presence as well as production of poisons."

She put the paper to a candle to burn it. "Patience is a virtue, as Madonna Caterina says."

"We must wait and obey His Holiness," he said fervently.

The proof of their conspiracy with the Bishop of Rome was destroyed.

Tears streamed down his face as Montecuccoli whined, "How could King François marry that Boleyn vixen? How could François condemn the souls of his people to eternal hellfire?"

Lucrezia stripped his robe off his shoulders. "Let me comfort you, Sebastiano."

His eyes flashed. "Bind me, Lucrezia."

"Gladly." She took his robe off and used it to bind his hands over his head.

As the lovers tumbled onto the bed, Catherine's lady-in-waiting landed atop of him. She was slapping and biting him as she rode Montecuccoli hard. Their shamanic ritual was based on animal instincts. In these moments, they seemed to themselves indestructible and immortal.

* * *

 _I hope you liked this chapter. I hope you will let me know what you think of this chapter. Thank you very much in advance._

 _François takes more steps to ensure that his reign and his queen's safety will be accepted in France. He makes all of his nobles swear another oath of fealty to him, their Catholic monarch, and to her, their Protestant queen. As Elizabeth Boleyn says rightly, this proves the King of France's feelings for Anne, who needs to understand that everyone at court must know she is more than a queen in name only, or she will be despised, because they love François._

 _I hope you like the love scene between Anne and François. There is some foreshadowing of what may happen in the future. But Anne's main motive for her starting to perform her marital duties is to have a son in order to take her revenge on Henry. The poem about black eyes which François reads to Anne was written by me._

 _All the information about Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle (A Burgundian politician who served Carlos V) is historically correct. He will spend many years at the French court._

 _Ferdinand von Habsburg… He is an important character in this AU. Despite being dependent upon his elder brother's will, Ferdinand was King of Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary, as well as King of the Romans, which means that Carlos designated him as his heir to the empire. So, Ferdinand is a very valuable prisoner!_

 _François says that it would be good to make Ferdinand their friend and perhaps ally. His main goal is to have at least one Habsburg who will not be against the House of Valois. He also strives to drive a wedge between Carlos and Ferdinand. A spoiler: Ferdinand will not be an antagonist, but I cannot say anything else now._ _One Ferdinand-centric scene was added to chapter 6 because it used to be too short; I needed to start his character development after his capture._

 _The Pope is plotting against Anne. Catherine de' Medici and her Florentine friends are not the only Pope's allies at the Valois court. Something might happen any time._

 _I also have a poll about Jane Seymour's prospective husband. The English court appears in the next chapter._

 _I shall respond to all the reviews to the previous chapter next week. These weeks are not easy for me._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	24. Chapter 23: The Queen's Coronation

**Chapter 23: The Queen's Coronation**

 ** _September 12, 1537, Basilica of Saint-Denis, near Paris, France_**

"Make way for Queen Anne!" the royal guards proclaimed as they were clearing the path for the litter where King François' new wife was seated. "Let the procession pass!"

On the monarch's birthday, the weather was pleasant. The sun shone down merrily, and the firmament was clear blue. No rain would foil this day for the Parisians who crowded the streets to watch Queen Anne's coronation procession that had made its grand entrée into the city through the Porte Saint-Denis, constructed as a gateway through the wall of King Charles V of France.

Queen Anne sat in a litter, draped in cloth of gold and drawn by four palfreys caparisoned in purple damask. She was accoutered in a splendid gown of purple brocade, dotted with golden fleurs-de-lis and trimmed with ermine on the sleeves and the bodice. Her husband had insisted that she wore the color purple to emphasize her royal status in France. With her raven hair flowing over her shoulders like a dark river, sparkling diamonds were woven into her hair.

The cortege was accompanied by the French royals and many men of the court. At the head were on their white stallions King François I and his sister, Queen Marguerite of Navarre. King Henri II of Navarre rode behind them together with Dauphin Henri. Foreign ambassadors, including the Imperial diplomat Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle, followed the dauphin.

Prince Charles, Duke d'Orléans, as well as Constable Anne de Montmorency traveled on horseback, together with Cardinal de Tournon and Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion.

Next succeeded several richly draped chariots, which contained Princess Marguerite de Valois, Madeleine de Savoy, who was Montmorency's wife, and Françoise de Longwy, Chabot's spouse, as well as Lady Elizabeth Boleyn and Lady Mary Stafford. Dauphine Catherine de' Medici and the infamous Diane de Poitiers, the dauphin's mistress, shared a chariot rather stiffly. Their expensive ensembles of white and blue velvet were ornamented with jewels, save Diane's gown.

As the procession moved slowly along the ancient route of the French kings, Anne could see countless spectators, who lined the streets while cheering the royal couple.

"The great King François saved the nation and France!"

"Our brave sovereign expelled the Imperial barbarians!"

"Long live His Majesty King François!"

Someone shouted, "Queen Anne helped our monarch save France!"

"God bless our chivalrous king and his wife!"

Prince Charles proclaimed, "Long Live King François and Queen Anne!"

The throng echoed, "Long Live King François and Queen Anne!"

The Queen of France wordlessly thanked her husband's youngest son, whom she adored the most among François' children with the late Queen Claude. As the people smiled and waved at Anne, her heart palpitated with delight, chanting a hymn of her victory over the pitiless fate that had degraded her into an exiled woman, labeled a whore and a witch over a year ago. _Henry will learn soon about my coronation,_ Anne enthused. _It is a pity that he cannot see me now._

About fifteen thousand people had gathered in Paris today. As part of the city's homage to the queen, many _tableau vivants_ and _mystères_ were performed where the royal party passed. Most of these sketches were devoted to their sovereign and his consort's chivalry. Staged in front of the Châtelet, one of them portrayed François dressed as a salamander under attack from an eagle, which implied the emperor, and the salamander was saved by a white-robed falcon – Anne.

In the squares, the fountains flowed with wine instead of water. Groups of women, garbed in Greek robes of golden silk, served it to the mob in golden cups as a symbol of France's future prosperity, that the sovereigns would grant the kingdom after the restoration of stability.

Near a bridge linking the Place Saint-Michel on the left bank of the Seine River to the Île de la Cité, the cortege commenced traveling at a slower pace. At the Pont Saint-Michel, the queen gaped at her surroundings. A cord had been stretched from the tower of the nearby chapel of Saint-Michel to the roof of the highest house on the bridge. All of a sudden, an acrobat appeared and walked along the cord, holding two candles in his hands and singing a song in Anne's honor.

 _Some call her the English Lady Anne Boleyn,_

 _But we know her as the lovely Queen Anne,_

 _As the heroic female warrior of France,_

 _As the fairest lady since her return to us._

 _Amongst the many pillars of rock and death_

 _She stands tall, proud, clever, and invincible,_

 _Her head swaying to and fro as she greets her men,_

 _Her soldiers of God for the glory of our land._

 _She leads her courageous warriors to her king,_

 _To the heart of our home in the Loire Valley,_

 _Amidst the beating of the drums and fanfares,_

 _Her resolve to fight never wavering until finale._

 _Amidst the firing of musketry and guns,_

 _Amidst the deafening din of shouts and steel,_

 _The brave Queen Anne becomes a graceful swan_

 _Dancing with her sword a military pavane,_

 _Like Minerva, saving her husband-king from ruin._

Cheers met the song. "Lord bless the Knight-King and his wife-savior!"

The queen felt as if a fairy tale had come to life. _François often composes verses and songs. He wrote a song in my honor!_ His name reverberated through her inner world like a bell of long-forgotten happiness. It was so incredible, yet real, and so endearing of him.

§§§

On the Île de la Cité, human masses greeted Queen Anne with earth-shattering applause. There were bells ringing from the steeples, sending birds clattering into the air. The curious faces of all those who strove to glimpse the new queen moved in waves like the sea.

At the Porte Saint-Denis Gate, several men emerged in Valois livery, carrying her arms joint with those of François – a phoenix rising from the ashes, crowned with a coronet adorned with a salamander. Anne's escutcheon as the French queen symbolized her transformation: her death in the web of calamities in England, and her rebirth in the fires of war in France.

Then came musicians playing on a long and elaborate fanfare. As they performed, a maid dressed as the Goddess Minerva welcomed the queen. The audience exploded with rapture.

King François slowed his stallion, caparisoned in purple silk down to the ground. As his spouse's litter reached him, he glanced at her. "How are you fairing, Anne?"

"I'm fine," his wife claimed. "This coronation is different from the one I had in England. Unlike the French nobles, commoners seem to be more accepting of me as their queen."

He lowered his voice considerably. "Do not antagonize our courtiers by arguing with me in public. Then all will be excellent. I shall cultivate your image as my heroic queen."

"You are right," she admitted reluctantly.

"I spared no expense for your coronation and the pageantry."

Anne laughed breezily. "I see that, sire." Her expression evolved into seriousness. "But you should not have done it, for France has been too severely affected by the war."

"François," he amended.

"Of course, François." There was a hint of a smile on her face.

"You will have a coronation of the utmost magnificence," he pledged.

She cast a questionable glance at him. "Do you like my new coat-of-arms?"

François nodded his affirmative. "It suits your perfectly well, my dearest phoenix."

"It symbolizes my death and rebirth," she whispered.

The monarch released a tired sigh. "I must confess that this triumph is also like death and rebirth for me. I've grown exhausted of the endless wars against the emperor, which were leaching France of its wealth for so long. Now the conflict is over, at least for a while."

"I understand." Anne dithered, then added, "Carlos will retaliate."

"He shall. Thanks be to God that Spain has no resources to attack us in the near future."

Then the monarch joined his sister at the helm of the procession.

The next _tableau vivant_ occurred near a bridge over the Seine River – the Grand Pont. There was a castle on a small platform with the Holy Trinity. As the queen's litter was crossing the bridge, a maid in the costume of an angel descended by mechanical means and came through an opening of blue and white brocade hangings, ornamented with golden fleurs-de-lis.

The procession halted. The angel stepped forth and placed a diadem upon Anne's head.

"Our intrepid Queen Anne!" the angel declared, curtseying to the king's wife. "May God save and protect you! We all thank you for saving our great king from the invaders!"

Deafening cheers rang out like a thousand bells. "Long Live Queen Anne!"

Anne waved to the mob. _True to his word, François is cultivating my reputation as his brave queen._ _I've treated him badly since our wedding, but he has done a lot for me._ A familiar stirring of guilt twisted her gut, and she promised herself that the truce they had achieved on the night of her coming to his bed would last long, perhaps until he betrayed her in some way.

As the procession passed Notre-Dame Cathedral, the queen could see more human faces around her, which warmed her heart. Many Parisians flooded the streets and blocked the road, as they tried to catch a glimpse of their queen. Because of that, the cortege stopped for a short time, until the guards dispersed the throng to allow the procession to continue its movement.

It delighted Anne that her marriage to François seemed to be popular among the people. Not being political animals, many viewed her as King Henry's victim. Before the Franco-Imperial war, the French had not despised Anne, nor had they lauded her; after the invasion, however, her popularity had soared because of her role in the creation of the vital Franco-Protestant alliance.

More members of the Privy Council joined the cortege. They were the Lorraine brothers – Duke Claude de Guise, Cardinal Jean de Lorraine, and Count Louis de Vaudémont.

The procession stopped near the Basilica of Saint-Denis amid acclamations of numberless spectators and the fanfares of trumpeters. There were hundreds of the civilians on the square near this large medieval abbey church, along with members of the royal household, who were dressed in Valois livery and lined up to form the guard of honor on the other side.

§§§

Jean du Bellay, Bishop of Paris and of Bayonne, welcomed Queen Anne to Saint-Denis. She proceeded down the aisle together with King François, Queen Marguerite, King Henri of Navarre, Cardinal de Tournon, as well as the Duke de Guise and the Constable de Montmorency.

Pausing, Anne asked her husband, "Where are my mother and sister?"

François answered, "You will see them soon."

"Your Majesty, should we start?" prompted Jean du Bellay.

"Definitely." The ruler extended his hand to his spouse, who accepted it.

The crown before Anne, who walked under a canopy of cloth of gold, was carried by the Constable de Montmorency, her scepter by the Cardinal de Lorraine. Princess Marguerite carried her stepmother's long train with a coronet of gold on her dark-haired head; Ladies Elizabeth Boleyn and Mary Stafford, both of them smiling, supported the train in the middle.

The French royal family entered with a slow, measured gait. As always, Dauphin Henri looked somber, as if Anne were unworthy of being crowned. Dressed in black and white, Diane de Poitiers followed her lover. Prince Charles flashed jovial smiles in the direction of his father and his stepmother. Ignored by her husband, Catherine de' Medici disguised her sadness with a smile that resembled one of gratitude for this little bit of extra color in her routine life.

Next came the spouses of the ruler's favored councilors in magnificent attire of white and blue silk trimmed with ermine, bejeweled French hoods shimmering on their heads. An instant later, the queen's ladies followed, dressed in gowns of scarlet brocade edged with white fur, their bodices made of brightly colored silk, in imitation of the plumage of the mythological phoenix.

Then followed the monks of Saint-Denis, all clothed in rich copes of gold, with ten mitred abbots. After them came several bishops in splendid purple raiment, two mitred archbishops, and the clergy. They were singing praises of the Virgin Mary and Saint Anne, the queen's namesake. Then emerged a long line of other high-ranking nobles accoutered in the finest brocades, silks, satins, damasks, and jewels. Claude d'Annebault and Philippe de Chabot walked together.

The king and queen reached the altar; the others stopped behind them.

The Bishop of Paris asked, "Do Your Majesties have something for our abbey?"

"Yes, Your Grace." Anne offered him the diadem the angel had placed upon her head.

"Thank you." Bellay took it with a smile.

The queen ascended the altar, knelt, and prayed in silence.

King François remained near the altar. He eyed the assemblage and addressed them. "My beloved subjects! Today is a special day for all of us! My wife, Anne de Valois, will be crowned as your queen. From now on, she will be immortalized as the savior of France in the eyes of the people and the Almighty. Whatever your religion, pray for me, your king, and for her!"

Anne heard only one majestic voice that broke the reverent stillness enveloping everyone. No sooner had François spoken than the strains of soft, soothing harmony encompassed his wife. His speech fastened her life to France forever even before her anointing, and it told of her future, challenging and rich for events, of deeds that Anne would have to perpetrate as his consort. In his voice, she distinguished a note of absolute confidence in her destiny.

The gathering of clergy and nobility nodded. A myriad of contradictory emotions were colliding and recombining within them. Most feared having Anne on the throne because of her Protestant background. Many appreciated what she had done for their country and their liege lord, but their concern over her religion was an overriding sentiment among others.

"Pray for the Valois family!" Henry of Navarre affirmed.

"We shall!" the congregation promised.

As Queen Anne settled in her chair of state, the Bishop of Paris approached her. "Will you solemnly promise and swear to be a loyal queen consort to your husband, King François? Will you govern the people of France and her other territories according to God's and the king's will, the respective laws and customs? Will your serve the kingdom loyally and dutifully?"

"I solemnly promise to do so." This oath stressed the queen's subordinate place due to the ancient Salic law that forbade women from succeeding the French throne.

"Will you, to the utmost of your power and ability, maintain in France and any others lands governed by the King of France the laws of God and the Roman Catholic Church governed by the Pope? Will you keep and preserve the Catholic doctrine, worship, discipline, and government thereof, as by law established in the Christian world, as far as your conscience permits within the bounds of God's Holy Law? Will you preserve unto the bishops and clergy of France, and to the churches there committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges?"

Anne's brow quirked, and she read the answer in the king's eyes. The queen's coronation oaths had been altered to take into account her beliefs, and to assuage the discontent of the nobility. _Why didn't you warn me about it, François? Do you think I would not understand why I must give such an oath?_ This reminded Anne of distrust between them in spite of their reconciliation.

"All this I pledge to do," Anne declared.

The queen glided to the altar, almost shrinking from the Gothic grandeur, and melancholy tinged her footsteps. As the Great Bible was brought from the altar by Bellay, Anne knelt.

Laying her hand upon the Holy Gospel, Anne asserted, "I shall abide by my oaths. Help me God to be a good queen for France, for my lord husband, and for all my people."

Anne returned to her chair, her head high. Her gaze met François', but she averted it.

The monarch ordered, "Begin the ceremony."

The Bishop of Paris and mitred abbots anointed Queen Anne on her chest and her head, whereas a French king is anointed on nine areas at Reims Cathedral. Anne received the ring, the scepter of justice, and the crown, but not the grand scepter decorated with the fleur-de-lis.

At the end of the ceremony, François came to his wife. "God save our queen!"

"Long Live Queen Anne!" everyone intoned; some reluctant voices were heard.

Taking his hand, Anne let François lead head along the nave. She was the second woman in history who married two kings, like Eleanor of Aquitaine. Her entire being exuded a sensation of triumph that would never fade away, which was like sheer ecstasy. And as the queen stared at the ruler, wings of romanticism fluttered between them, making her see in him her heroic Knight-King who had rescued France from the Habsburgs and Anne from life in exile until her dying day.

"Thank you, François," the queen said in the most sincere accents. "For everything."

A grin stretched his mouth. "You are most welcome, my wife."

§§§

The Valois royal couple quitted the cathedral, the others trailing after them. Queen Anne surprised everyone, including her husband, when she halted on the square overlooking the west façade of Saint-Denis. The area in front of them was dotted with happy countenances.

"What has happened?" quizzed the ruler.

His consort surveyed the concourse with a look of genuine kinship. "My countrymen, I thank you for coming here to greet me on this wonderful day." Her voice took on a higher octave. "I grew up at your beloved king's court, and I've loved France since my childhood. But after my marriage into the House of Valois, France has become _my true home_!"

The roar of the crowd's approval was like a continual roll of thunder.

As a hush settled, the queen stated ebulliently, "It is a great honor for me to be your queen. I shall make King François, my lord and husband, proud of me. Remaining at his side in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health until death do us part, I'll work assiduously and tirelessly for the benefit of _our realm_. I have the body of a woman, but my heart and stomach are those of a Queen of France, who at the same time will obey her husband according to tradition and law."

Smiling at François and then turning to the mob, Anne resumed her speech. "His Majesty and I care for you more than our own. Unfortunately, the damage from the invasion appears to be significant. People need food and shelter, so let us make sure that everyone has them. There will be no coronation festivities at our court to save the funds in the treasury for our people."

The noise of their rapture was deafening. Many threw flowers, which had been cut a few hours earlier, at the royal couple, and soon an avalanche of blossoms covered the square.

"God bless Queen Anne, and grant her a long and happy life!"

"The Lord protect our benevolent queen and bless her!"

"Long Live Queen Anne of France! Glory to her!"

 _Well done, wife,_ François praised her. _You have won more of their respect._ He observed a flush of elation suffuse his consort's cheeks at the display of the commoners' affection for her. She had offered François to do that a week earlier, and he had approved of her plan; her sincere and yet theatrical manner of speaking made the masses glorify both of them.

For a couple of hours, François and Anne spoke to the Parisians, although the Scots guard remained nearby on alert. The monarch administered justice in person, listened to petitions, and dispensed favour. Finally, the shadows of the cathedral grew to gigantic lengths and grotesque shapes, for the rim of the sun was touching the roofs of the distant buildings.

The ruler told his spouse, "Congratulations, Anne! What a clever trick to make them adore you more! I begin feeling like a fish out of water, for it is usually I who has been known as the one with a penchant for public speeches of a spirited and eccentric nature."

At first, her countenance was all haughtiness, daring him to judge her or find fault with her behavior. Then she burst out laughing. "I daresay it must be your jealousy speaking."

His grin was impossibly wide. "I should make such speeches together."

"Oh, yes." Her laugh was like choirs of angels.

As Anne was climbing to the litter, she spotted the two men. Sir Nicholas Wotton, the English ambassador to France, was piercing her with his eyes full of disdain. His companion was Sir Francis Bryan, her distant cousin. Yesterday, François had apprised her of Bryan's arrival in Paris as the King of England's special envoy in order to attend her coronation.

Inside the litter, Anne leaned back in her seat. "That turncoat Bryan is here."

The monarch replied, "We will stick to our plan."

François mounted his stallion; his sister Marguerite and her husband followed suit. Loud fanfares were blown by a bevy of trumpeters stationed near the abbey's façade. The procession started its way back to Palais de la Cité, slowly blending into the busy streets of the city.

* * *

 ** _October 20, 1537, Eltham Palace, Greenwich, Kent, England_**

"So, that Boleyn slut was crowned," spat King Henry.

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, dipped his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."

In moody silence, his legs crossed, the monarch reclined in his armchair with an ornately carved back, portraying the exploits of Saint George. "Was the coronation lavish?"

"According to Sir Wotton, it was so grand that it seemed King François and his whore went wild with their preserved freedom after the invasion. They made a ceremonial entrée into Paris, and crowds cheered her. Unlike the mob, the French nobility decided to err on the side of caution around her, although they are happy to go from the dour days of war to peace."

The king's brow arched. "The people of France accepted the harlot as their queen?!"

"Yes." Charles nodded with distaste. "They view her as a heroine of France, the French Minerva who saved their king and aided the nation to eject the invaders."

Henry gave a hoot of acrid laughter. "The foolish commoners have such a short memory. They ought to remember that their queen is the scandal of Christendom. She can bring only shame on France and their king; soon they will shun her the way she was shunned in England."

"Perhaps." The duke shrugged. "Does Your Majesty need anything else?"

"No, thank you. You may go dine with your wife, Charles."

After Suffolk's departure, Henry sagged in his seat and stared at the ceiling. Memories inundated his head, rankling with his implacable enmity to his former wife.

On the Feast of St Hermias, four years past, the procession had taken Anne from the Tower to Westminster Abbey, and she had been entertained with amazing displays along the way. Anne's coronation had happened in the Abbey church of Saint Peter, and Henry himself had held St Edward's crown above her head as a sign of his affection for her. The English had given her the cold shoulder on that day, and it angered Henry that the French had welcomed her.

Elegant luxury surrounded the ruler, but it only added more to his severe distress. A thick red and black carpet covered the floor. The walls were adorned with tapestries and paintings by Italian masters he recognized as those Anne liked: Sandro Botticelli, Alesso di Benozzo, and Giovanni Alberti. Although the king had not frequented Eltham Palace in the last few years, he and Anne had stayed here with Elizabeth once or twice. At that time, she had ordered from France new furnishings, paintings, and ornaments for both her and Henry's quarters.

"Damn!" cursed the monarch. "I should have had these rooms refurbished long ago."

The herald announced the arrival of Lady Mary Tudor. As she entered and curtsied, her father gestured towards a high-back chair upholstered with high quality black leather.

Mary assembled her courage. "Your Majesty, I know you dislike when someone meddles in your affairs, so I apologize in advance. Rumors that England will ally with Spain against France are circulating around the court. As the emperor is my cousin, I may be useful to you."

Henry barely glanced at her. "This rapprochement is not possible at this point."

"But this alliance would please the nobility, the gentry, and the commoners."

He explained at length, "After the rebellion, we must revive the monarchy's prestige in England. We cannot achieve it by allying with the Habsburgs. We also need new friends! If the emperor has his brother released from captivity, and replenishes his treasury with gold to hire armies, Charles and I will be able to encircle France and launch another invasion."

"My cousin, Ferdinand, is a prisoner of war in France."

"François is giving the emperor's brother the best hospitality possible. This will humiliate Carlos, who threw François and later his two sons in the cold, damp dungeons in Spain."

Mary sighed with relief as to Ferdinand's fate. Suddenly, she protested, "My cousin could not be so cruel to a foreign monarch and two kids, much less royal children."

Her father laughed. "You do not know Carlos at all, Mary. The emperor acted so because his hatred for François is immense. Perhaps I would have done the same."

She measured him with a probing glance. "No, you would not."

The monarch compared the two Habsburg brothers. "Daughter of mine, you understand little in politics. I reckon that Carlos will abandon Ferdinand alone with his French troubles."

Mary's mouth was hanging open. "They love each other as brothers."

Henry shrugged. "Certainly, they have a brotherly relationship, but it is more affectionate on Ferdinand's part. I've watched François, Carlos, and Ferdinand enough." He paused to collect his thoughts. "When Carlos first arrived in Spain from Flanders years ago, the Spaniards loved Ferdinand more because Ferdinand grew up there. As the people wanted Ferdinand to be their king, just as the late Ferdinand of Aragon dreamed of, Carlos sent his brother away at first to the Low Countries and then to Austria. In fact, Ferdinand was kind of _exiled_ from his native land."

"Carlos did what was necessary for peace and stability in Castilia."

"For himself and his reign," corrected the king. "Carlos hardly thought of his brother's hurt feelings when _ejecting him from his homeland_. I also recall that during the siege of Vienna by the Ottoman forces eight years ago, the emperor tasked Ferdinand to defend the city without providing him with any able-bodied men and funds. The Austrian armies, headed by Ferdinand and his generals, were helpless against the Turks, and only luck saved them from conquest."

Henry's gaze impaled Mary with its acridness. "Doubtless that the emperor has affection for his sibling, but he does everything for his own advancement and self-preservation. Ferdinand's allegiance has been _staunch_ for years, despite the not always fair treatment of him and the offences of his _royal_ dignity – Ferdinand is a monarch as well, and he deserves more appreciation."

"Carlos made Ferdinand King of the Romans and Archduke of Austria!"

"Indeed, at least something for such _admirable and unwavering_ fealty."

Mary claimed, "The House of Habsburg will always be united."

"No one can guarantee it." Henry thought of the York sons who had all supported each other until each of them had begun to want the other's power. "The royal enmity between cousins and even brothers might occur under many circumstances. I doubt Ferdinand will always obey the emperor silently and blindly, for where did it lead him during the invasion of France?"

"The emperor will rescue Ferdinand!" She wanted to think so.

"Carlos has no money in his treasury. But even if his coffers had been full, François would not have liberated Ferdinand. On the contrary, that Valois fox would make his best to make Ferdinand his ally and try to begin slowly turning him against the emperor."

"You cannot know that, Father."

"It matters not." He focused on the topic at hand. "I'll contact German Protestant princes to prepare for the shift of power balance in Europe. Your marriage to one of them will help us."

There was a choke of shock from his daughter. "Whom do you have in mind?"

It was Cromwell's advice to have Mary marry into a Protestant noble family. "Duke William of Jülich-Cleves-Berge, and Duke Philip of Palatinate-Neuburg. A week ago, my envoy, Christopher Mont, went to Saxony and Cleves. Another man departed to Bavaria."

Duke William of Jülich-Cleves-Berge had inherited the lands of Cleves-Julich-Berg in 1535. In 1536, William had received the neighboring Duchy of Guilders, as his relative – Charles d'Egmont – had died childless. The Habsburgs had inherited from Charles the Bold a claim to the Duchy of Cleves, but at present, the emperor was preoccupied with his internal issues, so the matter had been postponed. Thus, the Tudor monarch could ally with the Duchy of Cleves.

A titular Count Palatine of the Rhine, Philip was a ruling Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg. It was a small territory in Lower Bavaria, part of the Holy Roman Empire from 1505. In 1529, he had successfully fought the Turks during the siege of Vienna at the head of two divisions, and after the victory of the Christians, he had been made a Knight of the Order of the Golden Fleece.

Mary failed to throttle an indignant exclamation. "They are heretics!"

His reddish brows knitted in a frown. "William of Cleves is an Erasmian reformer; his duchy has its own church order from 1532. Philip of Palatinate-Neuburg is a staunch Lutheran."

"No Catholic can marry a heretic. That would be an unholy deed."

Henry stood up and strode across the room to a table. "François is allied with the German Protestant States. That is why I need an alliance with them." He poured a measure of sack and quaffed it down. "There is also an opportunity to work with the Schmalkaldic League, consisting of the Protestant princes. This alliance will ensure that we can switch sides whenever necessary. The Franco-Spanish war devastated the country and its economy, but the nation is still strong after their victory and, hence, poses a threat to us." He strolled back to his armchair.

Mary recalled what Chapuys had once said: her father could negotiate several alliances, and then switch between them as he chose. "Your subjects want you to restore England to Catholicism. The Imperial alliance will signal that we are on the path to salvation, not to eternal damnation. Any treaty with the German States will give the opposite message."

He snickered at her flawed logic. "The invasion of France demonstrated how dangerous the Habsburgs are. The lack of the Pope's condemnation of the emperor's warmongering proved that he is a corrupted coward. Now many of my Catholic subjects understand that, and they would prefer the Church of England to remain independent from the Vatican."

Mary opened her mouth, but her tongue slid between her teeth. "Wrong..."

He gave a low note of warning in his throat. "Mary, I forgave you for your mistakes once. Now you must be an obedient and loving daughter to me."

"I signed the Oath of Supremacy." She shuddered at the memory of that abhorrent day. Having signed it, she had commanded Francis Bryan to leave. Afterwards she had cried on Chapuys' shoulder, imploring him to procure for her the Pope's absolution.

Anger roiled inside the ruler. "Mary, I'm telling you one last time. I had to put up with your mother's resistance to my will for too long, but I shall not allow you to manipulate me."

Nevertheless, his eldest daughter declared with shocking audacity, "I beg your pardon, but I shall not marry a heretic. I'll never jeopardize my immortal soul."

"Silence! I'll drag you to the church if I have to. Now get out!"

"Your Majesty." She curtsied and darted towards the door.

On the way to her apartments, Mary Tudor thought that fate was unfair to her. She was lovely, well-educated, and pious, spending hours at her Catholic devotions in her chambers. Being her mother's daughter, she could rule! She descended from the great Catholic monarchs – Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon. If she had not been bastardized, she would have been an ideal match for any Catholic prince, instead of for some insignificant heretical noble.

 _That Boleyn witch,_ she hissed in her mind. _You must be held accountable for my mother's and my afflictions._ Now she needed the emperor's assistance more than ever, and she hoped that Chapuys' resourcefulness would extricate her from this difficult personal situation.

§§§

At the herald's announcement, Princess Elizabeth entered the royal private chamber.

The candles flickered in the wall sconces, and King Henry, who sat at an ornately carved high-back chair, glanced at her from across the room. His fingers played with the rings decorating them, clicking the jewels together with annoying repetition. His gaze reflected his impatience at seeing his daughter, who had arrived at Eltham only a couple of hours ago.

"Welcome to court, Elizabeth," began the monarch with a tentative smile.

The princess replied, "I much preferred my life at Hatfield."

"You do not want to be here with me, do you?" A secret worry that his daughter felt only aversion for him swiftly assumed the dimensions of an actual misfortune. "Tell me!"

Once Elizabeth had loved her father because he had loved Anne and her, and she had believed that there had been a beautiful spirit within this red-haired regal man. Now, after he had taken her beloved mother away from her, the whole thing about having a happy family sounded like some invention of a feverish brain. After their unpleasant conversations about Anne, Elizabeth had comprehended that it would be useless to dispute the matter of their separation.

The princess would not be happy without Anne, but she would survive. Her emotions resurfacing, she regarded Henry with a sort of pitying awe. How could he have disposed of Anne, for there was no one better in the world than her mama?! Then an awareness of the peril she stood in seeped through to her mind. To the girl, her father was 'the king' and 'His Majesty'.

The girl refuted, "I'm delighted to see you, but I apologize for intruding."

"You are my most welcome guest," Henry underscored.

His daughter dropped her gaze. "Sire, you are too kind to me."

Henry scrutinized Elizabeth: she had evidently grown since they had last met. She looked charming in a gown of auburn brocade with golden sashing. Her triangular-shaped stomacher of black silk was embroidered with diamonds. Her long, red-gold, and glossy hair was swept up into a French-styled cluster of curls – another memento of Anne's style. Onyx earrings in her ears and an onyx necklace that cascaded onto her bosom matched Elizabeth's dark eyes.

He recalled the helplessness in Elizabeth's eyes as he had declared that she would never see Anne again, and that Jane would replace her mama. His daughter had rejected Jane and him, and his response had stayed away from the girl for months, keeping her at Hatfield. His anger with Anne for indirectly turning their daughter against him had boiled under the surface of his skin, along with the knowledge that if he had let it out, he would lose Elizabeth forever.

 _Is Elizabeth still my girl?_ wondered the Tudor monarch. _Have I lost her, just as I lost Anne when I banished her from England?_ From her first breath, Anne loved their daughter. His former spouse had enjoyed spending time with the infant; she had even wished to nurse the baby. But although maternal separation could result in emotional trauma for Elizabeth, the monarch could not keep the Boleyn adulteress anywhere near their daughter.

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation and the king's musings.

Lady Anne Bassett walked in. Her gait was so smooth that she appeared incredibly light on her feet. Her lovely French gown was constructed from different swaths of red fabrics: some were silk and brocade, some velvet and muslin, and the bodice swooped enough to give everyone a frank glance at the delicate slope of the top of her breasts. Only Anne dared wear French attire at court, and she preferred the color red to remind others of the king's passion for her.

As she approached the throne, the royal mistress curtsied to her lover.

The waving of his hand permitted her to rise. "Meet my daughter."

Elizabeth looked curious, so Anne was proud of the reaction she had created.

"Madame," the girl said with restraint. "Everyone speaks highly of you."

Elizabeth regarded the woman with interest. When no one had seen her coming to her antechamber, her ladies' whines of embarrassment had aroused Elizabeth's curiosity. As a result, she had overheard many tales of the king's extramarital affairs in the company of Charles Brandon and his favorites. So, Elizabeth was aware that Anne Bassett was her father's mistress.

Anne bobbed a gracious curtsey. "It is my greatest pleasure, Your Highness, to finally meet you." She smiled sweetly. "You are a credit to His Majesty and England."

Her countenance royally cold, Elizabeth gave a barely noticeable nod. "We welcome you here." Her gaze flew to her parent, and a veneer of arctic politeness on her face cracked, giving way to scorn. "I hope that you, my lady, will soothe His Majesty's loneliness tonight."

The king's mistress twittered, "I shall do anything to make our sovereign merry."

"A subject behooves to please their liege lord," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"She is a truly delightful child," purred Anne.

"Thank you, my lady," Elizabeth responded evenly. "I bid you goodbye."

"Go play with your dolls!" the monarch shouted. "Get out of my sight!"

The princess sank into an elegant curtsey that resembled her mother's. Disregarding her parent's frowning countenance, she pulled herself upright with icy dignity. As she reached the door and exited, Elizabeth seemed to be gliding, like a swan moving over the still water.

Anne admired the girl's manners. "The princess is England's treasure."

"Elizabeth did not even flinch!" There was a tinge of wonderment in his tone. "So regal, so confident and enchanting in her bearing, so at ease in the world, but not in my presence."

She caught a note of sadness in his tone. "Her Highness loves you, sire."

"Does she?" Henry hobbled towards his throne and tumbled into it.

In the past several weeks, the pain in his leg had been rather bad. Once Henry had been so ill that he had been bedridden for days, until the ulcer on his right leg was more or less healed. Then he had risen from the bed, and now he was compliant with the medications prescribed by Doctor Butts. Yet, his ulcer never healed completely, and the king grumbled constantly.

Anne watched her lover's burly face contort in emotion. She no longer enjoyed being his mistress, for the monarch had gained some weight. He was becoming increasingly unable to participate in exercise and sports, but he kept eating the same amount of food. The royal paramour was afraid that she would feel too uncomfortable during intimacy with an older Henry.

His menacing growl snapped Anne out of her reverie. "My Elizabeth has taken too much after her Jezebel of a mother." The mistress saw Henry slam his fist into an armrest of his throne. "Jane or any other queen must birth me a son to carry on my legendary legacy!"

There was a glint in the mistress' eyes. _What if that pale Seymour pathetic excuse for a queen fails to give the king a son?_ Her ambitious mother, Honor Grenville, had once mentioned that she should bear the monarch's male child, but Anne had dismissed it back then. What would happen if she got pregnant and if Jane miscarried again? Despite her disgust with the king's certain features, Anne would endure the torments of Tantalus to become the next Queen of England.

Henry grimaced as the pain in his leg intensified. "To hell with Butts and all his herbs! They are not helping! I should have that incompetent idiot and his assistants boiled alive!"

Anne strolled over to the throne and knelt. Her slender fingers touched Henry's face, and she felt the heat from his body. Her eyes locked with his, and their sharp aquamarine gaze impaled her. Smiling at him despite her fear of his inner beast that Anne could see in Henry's glare, the ruler's paramour stroked his red-gold hair, soothing him with gentle words.

He said hoarsely, "Your performance in my bed is always flawless."

Moments ago, she had thought she would be disappointed with a closer contact between them, but his presence was overwhelming. In disregard of his widening girth and his non-healing ulcer, Henry was attractive. His male prowess and the magnetism of his power bewitched her.

A page entered. Bowing, he handed to the king a letter, then left.

Henry scanned through the letter. "The Marquess of Exeter is coming back to court."

Anne swallowed her breath in astonishment and excitement. "Hal Courtenay?"

"Yes. I've missed Hal so!" Visions of his adventures with Exeter and Suffolk flashed through the monarch's brain. "Exeter and Suffolk have been my best friends for years. Although Exeter is less involved in state affairs and spends most of his time in the west of the country administering it in my and his own names, he has begun to spend little time at court. Hal's sudden departure to his estates over a year ago makes me think that he might be unwell."

"Lord Exeter must feel better now if he is returning."

"On Christmas Hal will be with me. With his arrival, my life will become merrier!"

The royal mistress compelled herself not to snap at him. Perhaps the whole of England knew about the extramarital escapades of the king, Exeter, and Suffolk. Yet, in the next instant, the light blue eyes of Henry Courtenay floated before her mind's eye, causing Anne to tremble from her toes to the fingertips. _Exeter! A direct descendant of the illustrious Edward IV! My York prince… No, I should not think of my former secret lover,_ Anne prohibited herself.

Smiling, Anne climbed onto the king's lap before whispering, "There is authority in your bearing and a character etched into the lines of your fine-featured face. All women love it, and at your nearness, they dissolve into the veriest of ninny hammers." She laughed into his kiss.

"I like when you say that to me." Henry nuzzled the smooth skin beneath her ear.

She slid one leg around his. "I shall worship you like the God Apollo tonight."

He pulled away from her. "Come to me after midnight." He sighed either in annoyance or in anger. "I'll have to perform my marital duties prior. Jane owes me a son."

"Yes, she does," his paramour assented.

"Go sup with your relatives." He leaned so close that she felt his breath on her cheek. "My Anne! To me, you are far more beautiful and more intelligent than Jane."

She almost melted on the spot. "No lovelier than I am naked in your arms."

Jumping from his knees, Anne lowered herself into a curtsey in front of him. Henry was laughing at her as she marched to the exit, but his words held her in place.

"My earnest desire is to have a male heir. I shall give the very woman who makes my dream come true my heart for all eternity, and everything she wants and dreams of, and more."

A smile blossomed on her face. "Your Majesty's humility and generosity are immense."

§§§

King Henry summoned his chief minister to his private rooms. The ruler sat at a table with papers and ledgers; a chair beside his with the armrests in the form of lions was vacant.

"Come and sit with me, Master Cromwell." Henry did not look at the opening door.

Thomas Cromwell came breathless after his quick journey. Although his liege lord still blamed him for the Pilgrimage of Grace, now the ruler again favored him above others. As usual, his expression was reserved, but a hint of a smile betrayed how much he was enjoying himself.

"Your Majesty is most gracious." Bowing, the councilor eased himself into a chair.

Henry's gaze sharpened at the servility in his subject's voice. "Are you sure I've forgiven you for your radical religious decisions which made me unpopular among my subjects?"

A tide of color flashed across the man's cheeks at such a none-too-subtle hint. Cromwell was still in danger, so caution on his part was necessary. His mind drifted back to the dead man, who had aided him to start his career. _Thomas Wolsey was my teacher in politics. He helped me, a talented upstart, to rise from poverty. He made me who I am today,_ Cromwell mused.

Memories swirled through Thomas' head like smoke. In the mid-1520s, Cromwell had helped Wolsey dissolve about thirty monasteries to raise funds so as to found The King's School in Ipswich and Cardinal College in Oxford. In 1526, Cromwell had been appointed a member of his council. By 1529, Cromwell had become one of Wolsey's most senior advisors. However, Thomas Boleyn and Charles Brandon had plotted to bring Wolsey down, and Cromwell had seen the king's obsession with Anne Boleyn, so he had switched sides and betrayed his master.

Henry's speculation jolted the chief minister out of his reverie. "You know, Cromwell, I've been thinking of Wolsey and you. You two share more than your humble birth."

Fear bleached Cromwell's features. "Your Majesty, I'm prepared to lay the world at your feet for merely a sign that you find me useful for England and your throne."

"The nerve of that baseborn man!" Henry stood up with the look of a warrior about to charge the foe. "You would do anything for power, never acknowledging a defeat."

As the ruler towered over him, the royal chief minister was biting his bottom lip.

"I love the magnificence of your personality and court, sire."

Henry burst out laughing, as if he were in a festive mood. "Such deadly composure! It is your weapon against your enemies, which aids you to destroy them."

Cromwell longed to slap the abhorrent grin off his sovereign's face. "I–"

"Like Wolsey, you are highly intelligent and ambitious, extraordinarily hard-working and cunning. In your career pursuits, you have acted like a spider who would form new webs within old ones in order to amass wealth and accumulate power." Henry raised his voice. "Wolsey was the controlling figure in virtually all matters of state. He was also powerful within the Church as Archbishop of York. But after his fall, I've learned one lesson: I'll never entrust another councilor with as much power as Wolsey enjoyed, even if he is as talented and skilled as you, Cromwell."

The chief minister paled. "Your Majesty was chosen by God to be our king and Supreme Head of Church of England. You possess complete mastery over the bodies and souls of all your subjects. I'm your most humble servant who lives to serve your pleasure."

Leaning forward, Henry patted the arm of the other man. "Calm down. Do not cross me and serve me loyally. Then your head will remain attached to your shoulders."

"I understand, Your Majesty."

"Excellent. I shall not repeat the terms and conditions of your survival."

Cromwell gritted his teeth at the monarch's satisfied look. "I'll work tirelessly to dissolve the rest of the corrupted monasteries and put all their wealth into the state coffers."

Henry's gaze slid to a wooden cross that hung over the fireplace. "Cromwell, you are so ruthless, smart, and resourceful that you are capable of turning any misstep to your advantage with spectacular success. But don't presume that you know my heart well."

The minister guessed where the conversation was going. "Your wish is my command."

The king glanced back at his subject. "I supported the religious reform when it served my purpose of divorcing Catherine and marrying the Boleyn whore. Yet, at that time, I didn't take the Reformation fully to heart. There were moments when I felt uneasy about the matter."

"And now?" Hope lurched in Cromwell's chest.

The hostile royal aquamarine glare was piercing Cromwell to the very soul. "I've always approved of the dissolution of all the monastic houses, but I hate the outcome. The people's resentment against the new regime among my subjects led to an uprising, which we suppressed." He pointed a figure at his minister in an accusing manner. "It is your entire fault! You should have implemented the reform in some other way. My trust to you was badly shaken."

Cromwell's heart, full of disquiet, felt every word of this statement. "Your Majesty, forgive me! I beseech you to grant me a second chance to prove my worth to you."

"Begging… It does not fit your personality, Cromwell."

"It does," his subject mumbled hastily.

"I'm grateful to you for many things. But no matter how high you have risen in my favour, you have never completely won my trust and affection in the way that Wolsey did."

"Of course, sire." The minister was offended and intimidated.

"The Duke of Norfolk and Bishop Gardiner presented a series of arguments against your policies, Cromwell. However, the dissolution will be finished as initially planned; the reform will continue, but in a different way. Cranmer and you will work on _the Act of Six Articles_ , which will reaffirm traditional Catholic doctrine on six main issues. The Church of England will remain separated from the Vatican, yet the existing heresy laws will not be reinforced so far."

"The Catholics must be appeased," Cromwell deduced.

"Yes, Cromwell. It is your and Cranmer's task to ensure that the document is drafted and enacted as soon as possible. We will have to return to more traditional religious practices. At the same time, we will continue spreading the Bible in English throughout the country. Our Church will be slowly transforming into a godly institution based on Protestant rituals."

It was not as bad as the advisor had feared before. "I'll take care of everything."

The ruler climbed to his feet. "England urgently needs a Protestant alliance, and that is your second mission. Don't disappoint me, or I'll have your head."

As Henry lumbered to the door, Cromwell was taking fortifying breaths to clear his head.

The minister thanked the Almighty that the fiery Tudor temper had not spiked to a deadly level today; it seemed that he would be able to handle the king's orders. He knew of the jealousies of the nobles, who called him a lowborn jackal. But they had no idea about the dogged hard work he had done to attain his superb skills as a statesman. It was exhausting to walk the line between preserving his positions and beguiling the courtiers into the belief that he was invincible.

Regardless of what they thought of him, Cromwell was a star at court, for as long as the king lionized him for his accomplishments. He would strive to rise further in his liege lord's favor, but he would be on guard every minute, fully aware of how quickly his luck could turn.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading this chapter! I hope you liked it and will let me know what you think. Thank you very much in advance. I will try to review other authors more often._

 _Did you like Queen Anne's coronation in France? It was described as it usually happened in history. Anne's coronation vows were slightly altered to incorporate her Protestant religion so that they indicate that France is a Catholic country, and the queen cannot change that. François' song in honor of Anne's coronation was written by me._

 _King Henry is going to establish an alliance with the German Protestant States. It does not mean, however, that this will happen at this point, but Henry's intention to marry Mary Tudor off to a Protestant or Lutheran noble will have far-reaching consequences in the next several chapters. Mary has an unusual character arc in this AU._

 _Henry is watching the situation between François, Carlos, and Ferdinand. The facts about Ferdinand's relationship with Carlos are historically correct. Ferdinand appears in chapter 28._ _Attention! I added one Carlos/Ferdinand scene to chapter 2 to make something happening much later in story consistent with how everything was beginning. It follows the scene of the escape of King François from Arles (the second scene in the chapter)._

 _Anne Bassett is becoming more prominent in Henry's life. Soon we will have another important character – Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, who will be around for a long time._

 _In real history, William of Jülich-Cleves-Berge inherited the lands of Cleves-Julich-Berg in 1539. The date was corrected for fictional purposes._

 _I recommend that you check the works of two wonderful writers: VioletRoseLily at AO3 and Secret-writer91 at . You will enjoy them!_

 _A poll! I want to know something about Catherine de' Medici. On my profile! Thanks!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	25. Chapter 24: Queen Anne's English allies

**Chapter 24: Queen Anne's English allies**

 ** _November 22, 1537, Château de Fontainebleau,_ _Fontainebleau, France_**

King Henri II of Navarre opened the door to the study. "Margot, are you here?"

His wife's reply was short, signaling that she was busy. "Yes, Henri."

The study was illuminated by candelabra placed upon marble tables. Queen Marguerite of Navarre sat at a desk filled with ledgers, parchments, and inkwells. A multitude of books, most of them humanistic manuscripts, were stacked in shelves, which ran from the floor to the ceiling.

He strode over to the table. "Are you working on some French state papers?"

She lifted her tired eyes to him. "Yes, I am. These are reports of all kinds from Chancellor Guillaume Poyet. I'm especially interested in fiscal reports, for I need to allocate the gold we confiscated from the deserted Imperial camps to the needs of our people and the country."

The Navarrese ruler had a mane of brown hair. His doublet of black silk and his white lace-edged collar emphasized his average height and slight build. Beneath the highly arched brows, his hazel-green eyes, smart and lively, twinkled and smiled, while sometimes piercing others with a rapier's thrust of his sharp wit. His haughty, pointed chin indicated his strength of will.

 _My husband is handsome,_ Marguerite said silently while clasping some report in her hands. Henri d'Albert was her second spouse after her disastrous union with the late Duke Charles d'Alençon, who had blamed her for the lack of his progeny due to her numerous miscarriages. The marriage to Henri, who was several years younger, had brought Marguerite a lot of happiness; despite her four miscarriages and the death of their son Jean, Henri still adored his wife.

The only surviving daughter of the Navarrese couple was Jeanne d'Albert. A pious, clever, bonny girl of five, she was being raised together with the Valois children at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. After their son Jean's death three years ago, Jeanne became the apple of her parents' eyes and Navarre's only heiress, for Henri didn't hope to have another child with Marguerite.

Henri eased himself into a chair beside the desk. "Are you the Queen of France or the Queen of Navarre? Have you forgotten that you have a duty to _our_ kingdom too?"

She stiffened. "I remember that. Navarre has been France's closest ally for years. It is only thanks to the House of Albert's alliance with the Valois family that we have not been annexed by Spain. By taking care of my brother's realm, I am doing a great deal of good for Navarre."

"From a political standpoint, I understand you, Margot."

"Then what is wrong, Henri?" She preferred not to touch upon this excruciating topic. "I cannot abandon François. We have ruled France together since our mother's death."

He snapped, "François is my friend, but he has councilors to help him."

In a conciliatory tone, Marguerite articulated, "What would have happened if I could not act as supreme regent of France during the recent Habsburg invasion when my brother battled against the emperor?" She raised her voice. "France would have crumbled like a clod of earth."

While the late Louise de Savoy had been alive, François, Marguerite, and their mother had ruled France together, having been called _'Holy Trinity'_. The three of them had constructed and overseen the existing economic, political, administrative, and legislative systems of France.

"That is true. I could not help François during the invasion because I was barely able to hold back hordes of the Spaniards invading Navarre. The disaster continued for months."

She frowned in confusion. "Then why are you so angry?"

"The invasion is over, thanks be to God," the ruler said emphatically. "Now you can leave for Navarre and reside at our court in Bearn, just as you ought to do as my queen."

She shook her head. "I can only come to Pau or Bearn from time to time. France is encircled by Habsburg domains, and despite Spain's current financial problems, they still pose a threat to us. After Spain recovers from the troubles, they will invade again to retaliate."

A sigh escaped Henri. "Emperor Carlos will not forget his crushing defeat here."

She took one of the parchments in her hands. "He shall not."

"While Ferdinand is your prisoner, his warmongering brother will not attack."

Marguerite stamped the paper with the Valois seal and put it aside. "You never know what that half-Flemish, half-Spanish thug with a protruding lip will do tomorrow."

The relaxed air about him was gone. "No amount of persuasion is likely to aid my cause."

The queen was torn between her duty to two kingdoms, as well as her love for her brother and for her husband. "Our daughter Jeanne spends most of her time at Saint-Germain-en-Laye."

The monarch warned, "The friction between us will not disappear until you do your duty to me as my wife. Your place is with me in Navarre! Jeanne must live with us as well."

"Do you want me to betray François? My mother would spin in her grave, then."

He folded his arms over his chest. "Are you choosing France over Navarre and your brother over me?" His voice was tinged with anguish. "Have you ever loved me, Margot?"

Leaning across the desk, Marguerite took his hand and kissed it. "I've always loved you, my Henri. I consider us soulmates, and any misunderstanding between us tortures me."

He removed his hand from hers as if he could not take the close personal contact any longer. "Soulmates have deep feelings for one another. However, you are destroying our relationship."

As if unaffected by his outburst, she meditated, "At times, I think that soulmates come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you. Their goal is to change your mindset, tear apart yourself, show you obstacles and teach you lessons, and perhaps even break your heart."

Henri laughed morbidly. "We are soulmates tied by bonds of our _dying_ marriage."

Tears prickled Marguerite's eyes. "No. Don't say that!"

He continued uncompromisingly, "There is only one way to save our marriage. You must leave France and live with me in Navarre. We would visit your brother from time to time."

Instantly, the queen collected herself. "I don't like your tone, Henri."

The king jumped to his feet, and paced the study agitatedly. "I'm a king – I need my queen by my side. I am a healthy man, so my wife ought to perform her marital duties."

Her temper was slightly exacerbated. "I'm aware of your rare affairs in Navarre."

He paused near a table in the corner, and poured for himself a bejeweled goblet of wine. "After your mother's death, God bless her soul, your sojourns in Navarre became so rare and so short. I've been tolerant, enduring our separation and not complaining at all."

Marguerite comprehended his motivation for this conversation. "I've reconciled myself to your periodic infidelities because I know how difficult it is for a man to be without a woman for a long time. Your silent and benevolent acceptance of the fact I reside in France pushed me to turn a blind eye to your liaisons in gratitude for your forbearance and understanding."

Henri drained the goblet in one draught. "During the past six years, while you neglected our kingdom and marriage, I had only _three_ affairs in Navarre. None of them lasted for longer than three months or so. For most of the time, I lived in celibacy, dreaming to see you."

A haze of jealousy encompassed her. "Did any of them mean something to you?"

"God, of course not." He refilled his goblet and drank half of it at once.

 _Forgive me for this lie, Margot,_ Henri thought remorsefully. _I love you dearly, but your own actions and choices pushed me away to someone else._ Indeed, he had never had many mistresses, and for the most part, he remained faithful to his spouse. However, the face of Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, who had been his clandestine lover every time he came to the French court, plagued him day and night, awake or dreaming, and Henri yearned to make her his again.

Her lips quivered as she asked, "Do you still love me, husband?"

Setting the goblet on the table, the monarch cast an affectionate gaze at her. "I do, Margot. That is the reason why I am attempting so hard to salvage this marriage. I need you!"

Her heart fluttered with a longing so intense that she trembled. "Henri, I need you too."

Henri rushed to his spouse and gathered her into his embrace. His kisses were every bit as intoxicating and drugging as the best wine from vineyards in Bearn. Their clothes suddenly felt too restricting, but as they were in the study, he unlaced his hose, while she raised her skirts. The tempest of primeval passion overpowered them like charioteers no longer able to manage the reins, and they made wild, uninhibited love as Henri placed her on the table.

 _God, such tremendous passion and pleasure are not a sin,_ Marguerite's heart sang. With muffled cries as she bit her bottom lip, she offered herself to her husband fully, enjoying his every thrust, pushing aside all the doubts after their candid discourse. Since Henri's arrival at the French court in September, they had shared a bedroom and had intercourse, but it was the first time that they had been so swept up by desire, just as they had been during the first years of their matrimony.

In the aftermath, they rearranged their garments. Henri gathered her into his arms.

She whispered, "You are my god, my ideal of manhood, and my husband."

He let out a chuckle. "I thought your brother is your ideal."

"No. François has many flaws despite all my devotion to him."

The ruler cupped her face between his hands. "Will you act as my spouse?"

His question broke the spell. "I'm a woman of duty to France, a woman of letters, and only then a wife," she pronounced apologetically. "My brother and the whole nation need me here. If something happens, there will be no one who can become a better regent than me."

A disappointed Henri released her. "Your heart belongs to France."

"To you too," she claimed, feeling too cold out of this embrace.

"Does it?" His eyes were pools of heartache. "You are more a Valois than anything else, Margot. Your mother raised her female copy: just as Madame Louise de Savoy devoted her life to her only son and France, you are following in her footsteps by dedicating your life to the country of your birth. I do admire this! On the other hand, do you know that you are hurting me?"

Marguerite's features formed an agonizing mask of guilt. "You knew that I'm not like others when you wed me, Henri. Duty to both France and Navarre pushes me to stay here."

"Because there will be no Navarre without France," he finished.

"Yes." She could scarcely breathe. "Henri…"

"You are too extraordinary." His face was blank, but his dolorific eyes spoke volumes. "I want a wife and family, Margot. I am a simple man from Bearn who craves warmth."

His words chilled her, her guilt intensifying. "Come to France more often."

The monarch stalked towards the exit and left. Marguerite slid to her knees and wept. At such a late hour, only François could visit the study, so no one would see her vulnerability.

 _What should I do now? How can I explain everything to Henri?_ Marguerite thought of the young Henri who had whiled away his time with a pen as he had composed clumsy poems to her after their wedding, and she had praised him, although they had been far worse than her brother's. But Henri d'Albert was no longer her beloved artist who had once painted her life in gorgeous colors of exhilaration. They loved each other, but the rift between them was swiftly widening.

* * *

 ** _December 5, 1537, Leeds Castle, Kent, England_**

Waiting for the royal party, Queen Jane Seymour and her sisters, Elizabeth and Dorothy, stationed themselves near the entrance to the Gloriette. The monarch's spouse and her family had arrived at Leeds a week earlier as the king had sent them ahead from Eltham.

"Why is the court moving here?" Jane's gaze wandered around the inner bailey.

Elizabeth Seymour, Lady Cromwell, smirked. "Years ago, His Majesty transformed Leeds Castle from a fortified stronghold into a palace for Catherine of Aragon."

"He must like this lovely palace," opined Dorothy.

The queen's countenance brightened. "I'm honored to be here because the late Queen Catherine loved this place. Maybe His Majesty misses her and decided to come here."

"No," denied Elizabeth. "Here the king has fewer reminders of the Boleyn adulteress."

"He has forgotten her," Jane blurted out.

"Naïve," Elizabeth barked, "or foolish. If a man cannot stay in places associated with his once beloved, he runs away from his memories of her and his feelings for her."

Jane's heart sank into her stomach. "He cannot still lust after that whore."

"Enough," rebuked Dorothy. "Elizabeth, if your intention was to ruin our day, you have accomplished that. But don't forget that Jane is your queen – treat her with respect."

"Wisdom cannot be imparted," Lady Cromwell snapped.

Their argument was interrupted by the appearance of the monarch's jester, Will Sommers.

"Our fairest dames of England!" The jester swept a bow to them. "The king will be here soon. The weather will be splendid tomorrow because he will shine upon us like a sun."

Jane smiled faintly. "Winters in Kent are mild and foggy, but rarely sunny."

Sommers made an inviting gesture. "Watch His Majesty's arrival!"

Dorothy whispered to the man, "The queen is not interested in seeing the king's slut."

At this, Jane shivered with her whole body, in spite of wearing a warm ermine cloak.

Realizing the truth, Sommers was shamefaced and sent Jane an apologetic look.

§§§

A signal gun from the Constable's Tower heralded the approach of the royal party.

First appeared a dozen trumpeters, blowing flourishes. Then a contingent of halberdiers, whose leader warned as they pressed forward, "Make way for the king's grace!"

Then succeeded a master-at-arms, bearing the standard of Baron Cromwell of Okeham. Next rode the English chief minister himself, mounted on a horse enveloped in golden brocade, his saddle covered with the same stuff, and gilt stirrups. Cromwell was attired in an expensive cloak made out of genet. In spite of his preference for ascetic fashions, he loved wealth and pomp.

A group of nobles rode ahead to meet the king, each frowning at the sight of Cromwell.

"That bastard has a princely retinue," the Duke of Norfolk assessed.

"I hope that he burns in hell," growled the Duke of Suffolk. He did not like Norfolk in the slightest, but he shared the negative sentiments towards the chief minister with others.

"Soon!" Francis Bryan tossed the words over his shoulder.

Norfolk and Bryan snickered, and Surrey joined in their laughter. A prickle of suspicion slid down Suffolk's spine: Bryan had definitely seen Anne Boleyn in France.

Thomas Audley opined, "Cromwell deserves to fall from the king's good graces."

"That beastly devil must be burned," hissed Nicholas Carew, who had recently returned from Italy. "All the torments in purgatory will not cleanse his soul."

Its history dating back to the time of Norman intrusions into England, the castle had been erected on two small islands in a lake, formed by the River Len to the east of Leeds village. After winding their way slowly along the river, the royal cortege passed through the great gateway and reached the outer barbican, then entered the inner barbican through a narrow drawbridge.

The group of nobles waited for a short time, and it suddenly started snowing.

After a line of lords, knights, and esquires emerged the ruler's sumptuous litter draped in cloth of gold. It was drawn by stallions caparisoned in purple velvet down to the ground, so the expensive fabric was already covered with snow. A contingent of arquebusiers encircled the litter. Next succeeded a chariot swathed in green and silver brocade, which contained the Bassett clan.

The snowflakes swirled almost horizontally, forcing them to slow down a little. Another drawbridge and the bridge over the moat carried them to the main island. They rode through the inner bailey and to the Gloriette, where the royal apartments were located.

As the cavalcade finally stopped, the trumpets blasted their shrilling notes. Joyful strains proceeded from sackbut and psaltery; the lords flung their caps and toques into the cold air.

King Henry and Anne Bassett climbed down from the litter. Anne's mother, Lady Honor Grenville, and her sisters, Philippa and Catherine, disembarked from their chariot next.

The monarch gazed at the lordly palace, above which the Tudor standard floated, and a smile curved his mouth. He had not been here for quite some time. _At least, the ghost of the Boleyn adulteress will not plague me here, but maybe Catherine's will._ _I stayed here with my brother's widow on numerous occasions._ Suddenly, Henry doubted his decision to return here.

Lady Bassett was tired after days of journeying on the snow-dirtied roads. Nevertheless, pride swelled in her bosom: she had accompanied the king on his progress to Leeds instead of his wife. Just as her eye chanced on Queen Jane and her sisters, the mistress shot her rival a triumphant smile. _I long for the day when I'll approach any royal residence as its mistress_ , she dreamed.

At first, Henry paid no attention to his wife, who waited with her relatives and Sommers.

The Dukes of Norfolk and of Suffolk with their companions consigned their horses to their pages. They observed the king saunter to his consort, who advanced forward and curtsied to him.

Surrounded by her relatives, the royal mistress reluctantly stepped back from the monarch.

"Good day, Madame," was all that Henry told his spouse.

"I'm happy to see Your Majesty again." Jane glimpsed the pitch darkness in his eyes.

Turning away from the queen, Henry beckoned his mistress to him. "To me, my dear!"

Anne Bassett strolled to him with a measured gait of royalty. "Your Majesty!"

The monarch eyed her with passionate admiration. "At Leeds Castle, you, together with Jane, can make yourself a mistress of it, just as I am its lord and master."

Supreme haughtiness tinged his paramour's visage. "You are the kindest king, sire."

Jane cast down her eyes to conceal her shame from her husband's behavior. Her siblings feared that their position was turning more precarious; only Edward looked composed.

"I feel the advent of spring," interposed Sommers, "just because you are here, sire."

Henry laughed. "I'm so powerful that I can change the cycle of nature!"

Melting snowflakes moistened Anne's cheeks. "Ah! My skin! The snow damages it!"

"My daughter might catch cold!" Honor Grenville headed to Anne.

"Let's go inside," the ruler enjoined, giving his paramour his hand.

Amid continued fanfares, King Henry quickly led both Anne and Jane inside the palace. The relatives and ladies of his mistress and his consort involuntarily mingled, shooting each other fierce looks before heading off in different directions, as Jane parted her ways with the ruler in the great hall. In a few minutes, thick fog and heavy snowfall reduced visibility outside to zero.

§§§

Eustace Chapuys and his English friend entered the ambassador's apartments.

Nicholas Carew strode across the chamber. "Has the devil bewitched the king completely? Have you seen him treat that Bassett whore as if she were a queen? The slut is a reformer!"

"Good day, Sir Nicholas." The Imperial ambassador eased himself into a chair.

Carew settled into a chair next to the diplomat. "Nice to see you again, Eustace; I was glad to receive your letters while in Bologna. You look normal, despite the happenings at court."

"I'm accustomed to seeing His Majesty disrespect Queen Jane in public. By keeping the Bassett slut close, he is punishing his wife for her miscarriage. But you don't know the worst."

"What?" Alarm slithered through Carew.

The ambassador's fists balled, knuckles white. "His Majesty is striving to align with the German Protestant states. To achieve this, he intends to marry Princess Mary off to some heretical high-born noble, despite the discrepancy between their religious beliefs."

"Sweet Christ," Carew mumbled in frustrated horror.

"We shall not allow that to happen. Never ever!"

They shared determined looks, their hatred for the Protestants written across their faces.

"I was in Rome," Carew informed.

Chapuys blinked. "The Vatican? Whatever for?"

"To visit the great Pope Paul. While still in Bologna, I received an invitation from him. On my way back to England, I journeyed to Rome and met with His Holiness."

"What did he say, Sir Nicholas?"

Carew grinned slyly. "We remembered William Brereton."

At this, Chapuys smiled craftily, and they broke into a fit of conspiratorial laughter.

§§§

The Duke of Norfolk rolled to his side as the dull light of late afternoon slipped through the wooden shutters. Exhausted after the swift journey to Leeds, he had resolved to spend the rest of the day in bed. He was not alone: his mistress, Elizabeth Holland, known as Bess, lay on her back beside him, strawberry-blonde hair spilling across the pillow, her mouth half open in sleep.

"Bess, you are so lovely." Norfolk touched her shoulder, its skin smooth and soft.

"Let me rest, my lord." Her voice slurred in sleep.

"You cannot, my dear. My son, Surrey, and Bryan will visit soon."

Norfolk embraced Elizabeth, his lips capturing hers as if he hadn't kissed her for months. His paramour moaned, feeling the most marvelous sensations as something hot and thick invaded her. They had been together since 1527, but Bess still found it unbelievable that sometimes, this ruthless hawk could be so tender, especially with someone whose birth was far lower than his own.

Bess had once been a laundress in the household of Norfolk's spouse – Lady Elizabeth Stafford, Duchess of Norfolk, from whom Thomas had separated a couple of years earlier.

When it was over, Bess sat up, pulling the sheet to her chest. "I'll return to my room."

"Bess, remember what we discussed the other day. We need you here."

With a nod, she climbed out of bed and skittered to the dressing room. She emerged from there in a matter of minutes, her slender form clad in a gown of brown satin worked with silver, with long, open, pendent sleeves, which Anne Boleyn had introduced to the English court. Her lover had already changed into a doublet of fuchsia satin embroidered with diamonds.

Norfolk burst out laughing. "You are very quick today, Bess."

"Wear vibrant colors, my lord!" she hooted. "We will prove your niece's innocence."

After quitting his bedroom, Thomas and Elizabeth went to meet the duke's guests.

The small reception chamber was framed with elaborate paneling on the walls and ceiling. The fireplace was adorned with a pomegranate emblem. Walnut furniture, ornamented with inlaid ebony, the vargueno cabinet, and many Spanish motifs in the interior's decorations suggested that this suite had once been occupied by someone who had predominantly foreign tastes.

As they entered, Norfolk snarled, "The Spaniards are leeches on the body of the Christian world. My niece rightly said that they should all be at the bottom of the sea."

Elizabeth recognized the room. "Lady Maria de Salinas lived in these apartments."

His distaste of Catherine of Aragon and his disdain for her influence on England's policy during her queenship were well known. "That Spanish cow told a falsehood about her mistress' virginity, together with that blasted Doña Elvira Suárez de Figueroa, Catherine's duenna."

She concurred. "Certainly, Prince Arthur and the late Princess Dowager of Wales were intimate. Because of their lies, you schemed a lot to place your niece, Anne, on the throne."

As they stopped near a line of chairs, Norfolk asserted, "We will have to work hard in order to clear Anne's name of the false charges for Princess Elizabeth's sake."

"And for your own power," she stressed.

With an overweening air about him, he proclaimed, "For the House of Howard!"

The door opened, and the Earl of Surrey barged inside. He bowed to his father.

An athletic man of average height, Surrey was handsome in that thoroughly English way. Shaped like a slightly rounded rectangle, his face exuded a ruddy glow of youth, while ambition glistened in his blue orbs. Surrey wore a doublet of red satin wrought with gold, blue silk hose, a fancy girdle made of gold and emeralds, a black velvet toque on his head.

A paternal smile warmed Norfolk's frigid countenance. "My son! A handsome man by all accounts, and no lovesick youth. A warrior, a fine courtier, and a great Howard!"

"Father!" Surrey called with a grin. "I've come at your request."

The duke hugged his heir. "Together we are a force to be reckoned with, Henry."

At the sight of his father's mistress, Surrey grinned from ear to ear. "How lovely, Your Grace of Norfolk! Lovers need morning, noon, and nightfall with each other."

Elizabeth trained her eyes on the earl. "Lord Surrey! A rich, lazy, but sly and clever, lord such as yourself should be resting for days after a long, tiresome journey on horseback."

The young man didn't bother to hide his negative attitude to his father's liaison with a former laundress. Thus, Bess never missed the opportunity to make fun out of him.

"Miss Holland." Surrey backed away as she moved closer.

The annoyed duke was about to intervene when Sir Francis Bryan strode into the room. "Lord Surrey and Lady Holland, may I borrow His Grace for a moment?"

Norfolk settled himself into a chair carved with vines. "They will stay."

Stopping next to him, Bryan regarded him curiously. "What for?"

"My son is a Howard!" the duke stated with pride. "He will aid us, and so will Bess."

Surrey darted an arrogant look at Bryan. "It is the best happiness to have a large, close-knit family. This lets us work together for the benefit of our noble house."

Bryan let out a laugh; he quite liked the lad. "Fair enough, Lord Surrey."

"Of course!" Elizabeth took the seat beside her lover. "Have you forgotten that I served as a maid-of-honor to Queen Anne Boleyn? I adore her and wish her daughter well."

For an hour, they discussed Francis Bryan's visit to France. They listened with rapt attention to his descriptions of Anne's life in France and François' stratagem. Bryan had already briefed the king on the subject of his stay at the Valois court, and the Tudor temper had ignited.

Bryan characterized the French queen. "A woman with brain and class, cousin Anne faced extreme hardships with courage. They taught her to be an icy queen in front of the Valois court."

Norfolk nodded approvingly. "Anne's short temper and her interference with Henry's affairs led to the Boleyns' downfall. François values female intelligence, so Anne is fortunate to have him as her husband, but he is unlikely to tolerate her outbursts and jealousy towards his lovers."

Bryan reported, "The King of France does not have any mistresses at this time."

Surrey stood up and approached a table in the corner. He poured wine for himself and drank a little. "Has the Boleyn siren charmed her philandering French husband so utterly?"

Getting to his feet, Bryan came to the same table, where Surrey stood. Bryan informed, "I observed Anne and François in public together. He is reserved and regal, but his look of absolute adoration directed at her from time to time cannot be missed. Unlike Henry, he is not a volatile man prone to obsessions, and our cousin shall not wrap him around her finger."

Elizabeth shrieked with laughter. "His French Majesty is in love with Anne!"

Bryan filled his goblet. "But she does not seem to return his feelings."

"Excellent," Norfolk nearly purred. "Love should not become Anne's downfall again."

The duke's paramour giggled. "A woman's heart is like a deep ocean, and it hides secrets. I heard enough about François to predict that Anne's heart and body, which turned cold due to Henry's betrayal, must come alive under his expert touch. If not her heart, then her body."

Bryan took a swallow of brandewine in his goblet. "According to rumors, Anne and François spend every night together. The French court awaits news of her next pregnancy."

Surrey returned to his chair with a full cup. "Women are for childbearing, men for power!"

Elizabeth Holland threw a contemptuous glance towards the young Howard. If in anything her opinion was of consequence to her lover, it was not where a woman's inferior position was concerned. In men's opinion, women had to be submissive and respect their fathers' and later their husbands' authority. _You all are weak and too emotional,_ Norfolk had once told her.

Resentment flowed out of Bess. "We women are no fools! Often we are stronger and better educated than men. Take Queen Anne: she made mistakes, but no other woman, save Eleanor of Aquitaine, has married two kings. I wish her happiness with her new husband, who is different from King Henry and most Englishmen, at least some those who gathered in this room."

Norfolk gritted his teeth. "Shut up, Bess." Surrey nodded at his parent.

Bryan diffused the tension. "Making love is one of the most enjoyable activities known to men. Without ladies men would not have been able to experience such pleasures."

"Indeed, Sir Francis." It was Surrey's first kind response to Francis.

Norfolk stated, "Anne should bear for the French king many children."

Bryan's grin was wide. "With the frequency of Anne's beddings by François, she will be pregnant many times. Henry didn't show such attention to her after his passion had cooled off."

The Earl of Surrey said sincerely, "I admire my truly extraordinary cousin. If she bears a male heir to the French throne, the Howards will be related to the Valois dynasty."

Norfolk drummed his fingers along the wooden armrests. "Dauphin Henri's marriage is still childless. Prince Charles, Duke d'Orléans, is healthy, but King François lost his eldest son."

Surrey cried, "A toast to heirs to the thrones of France and England with Howard blood!"

Elizabeth filled four chalices with wine and brought them to the three men. Twirling the fourth cup in her hands, she eased herself into her chair. Together they all drank a toast to Queen Anne's prosperity and to their dream to see her children monarchs of two countries.

Francis Bryan moved the theme to agenda. "We shall wait for a signal from King François."

Bryan extracted several papers from a pocket in his doublet, then unfolded them and handed to Norfolk. He talked and talked about his audiences with the Valois ruler.

Now the Duke of Norfolk had a glint of danger in those hazel eyes that promised death to his enemies. "I agree that we should not act until King François' spies learn more about the Pope's plot against my niece. Then we will take action against Cromwell."

"What do you think of the Pope's deeds?" Bryan quizzed.

Thomas Howard forced himself to remain calm on the outside. "I'm a devout Catholic. Yet, it is the only way to prove my niece's innocence, bring down that baseborn usurper of power, and ensure that Princess Elizabeth will not be tainted by her mother's alleged crimes."

Both shaken by the Vatican's attempts at Anne's destruction, Norfolk and Surrey felt rather uncomfortable. However, if Elizabeth became the Queen of England, the House of Howard would climb to the unprecedented heights. They would sacrifice their spiritual ideals for power.

At the same time, Francis Bryan recalled the French monarch's words about Elizabeth's personality. He had given a good deal of thought to the matter, and now he agreed with François. Elizabeth's character was a great, yet toxic to a degree, blend of Anne's and Henry's qualities, so the girl was bound by nature to excel in learning to govern the realm. Bryan didn't think that the princess would be easily manipulated, outmaneuvered, or ruled by men as she grew up.

"I'd assist you, my lords," interjected Elizabeth Holland. "I'll do anything to help Anne."

"I figured you would act as our spy," Surrey drawled, frowning.

"Then congratulations are in order!" Bryan jested. He added seriously, "A female spy is capable of seeing beyond social norms and barriers to reveal truths not so apparent to men."

"So very true, Sir Francis." Her voice flattened into a jovial hum.

Norfolk summed up, "We will make Cromwell and Suffolk lose everything."

Each of them was aware of how careful they had to be so that no one would discover that they had associated with the King and Queen of France, or they could end up on the scaffold.

"What about my sister, Elizabeth?" Norfolk wanted to know about her life in France.

Bryan recited what he had seen in Paris. "The Countess of Wiltshire is taking care of her beloved daughters. I saw Lady Elizabeth in the corridors with her daughters' children. Mary is always at Anne's side, and at court they are called two Boleyn girls conquering France."

The duke chuckled at Bryan's last words. "Did you speak to Elizabeth privately?"

Bess sent a sympathetic glance to her lover; she knew that he worried for his sister.

"No, I didn't," Francis answered. "She is always with her daughters."

"I see." Norfolk hoped that she would write him, but she hadn't. His heart bled that their relationship had deteriorated due to his role in her two children's downfall, but at least, Elizabeth was now content. His conscience was at peace that Mary had found her place in France.

Surrey questioned, "Are you going to use Thomas Boleyn in our scheme?"

His father shook his head vigorously. "No! My sister separated from him and moved to France. Neither of my nieces cares a whit about the man. Let him rot in Hever."

Bess opined, "The Earl of Wiltshire deserves that."

"I believe we are finished here." Francis Bryan jumped to his feet, then turned his head to Surrey. "My lord, let's leave your father with the charming Miss Holland."

"That is an excellent idea," approved a grinning Bess.

The Duke of Norfolk enjoined, "Go to your wife, son."

Surrey's lips quirked into a derogatory grin. "Have a good time, Father."

As the door behind Bryan and Surrey slammed shut, the plotting was over. Bess Holland threw herself into Norfolk's arms and submitted to whatever scandalous desires he had.

* * *

 ** _December 18, 1537, Leeds Castle, Kent, England_**

The presence chamber, located in the Gloriette, was lit by a low fire burning in the hearth and candles placed here and there upon tables. Their flames caused shadows from the figures of those councilors who stood in front of the massive throne, where King Henry sat.

The monarch eyed his subjects before announcing, "I shall put an end to the diversity of opinions as to the religious policy in England. I've appointed Secretary Cromwell and Archbishop Cranmer to produce a special statement, which we will call _Six Articles_."

The Duke of Norfolk despised the mere fact that Cromwell had been charged again with a task to do something important. "Should I aid them to work on it, Your Majesty?"

The king shook his head. "Only after the initial draft is prepared."

Norfolk maintained an impenetrable demeanor. "As you command, sire."

The monarch's answer offended Norfolk and the other nobles, strengthening the resolve of Norfolk and his accomplices to dispose of the man. Cromwell's expression was colored with a snobbishness that accompanies people to whom success went to their head.

"Your Majesty," the Earl of Surrey spoke up. "You may need my father's counsel."

The ruler shot him a withering look. "You are dismissed, Lord Surrey."

As the earl made a stiff bow and stomped to the exit, Norfolk barely repressed his outrage at how their sovereign treated the Howard family. His pride for his son was also immense.

The monarch revealed, "The document will cover six most important Christian dogmas. These include the Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation, the view that one need not receive both bread and wine in the communion, the unconditional obligation of priests to remain celibate, the binding character of vows of chastity, as well as private masses and auricular confession."

Silence prevailed. It was as if they held their breaths before the king elaborated.

Henry scrutinized a set of three wall hangings portraying scenes from lives of Christ and St. John the Baptist. "The disunity of my people has been the source of a continual worry for me. It conflicts with my view of how a good Christian prince should order the lives of his subjects. I've resolved that the Reformation will continue, but we must quieten religious debates."

Henry's gaze drifted to Norfolk. "If I had made you, Norfolk, responsible for the drafting of this act, you would have eliminated as many Protestant doctrines as possible. But our nation needs a religious settlement that will be a compromise for everyone. Whence, Cranmer and Cromwell will create the initial wording, and then Chancellor Audley and you will review it."

Norfolk flattered, "Your Majesty's choice of evangelicals could not have been better."

Nicholas Carew sniggered. "These men will have to curb their reformation vigor." Turning to the chief minister, he pronounced waspishly, "Best of luck with this, Cromwell."

"Thank you." It irritated Cromwell that the nobles refused to address him as Lord Okeham. But he was a competitive person, and if a glove was thrown his way, he would pick it up. "Cranmer and I shall ensure that _the Act of Six Articles_ will also cement the victories of reformers."

"Sire, Cromwell has crossed a line!" Carew huffed in exasperation.

Henry shifted in his throne. "I've grown tired of the rivalry between the reformers and the Catholics. The new Act will establish the uniform doctrine of Christ's religion in my kingdom."

The Duke of Suffolk offered, "I'd like to assist in preparing the Act, Your Majesty."

"No, Charles," Henry denied. "You will run another errand for me. Summon Mary."

Brandon quitted the chamber amid muffled jeers of the other lords. The king's last words had painted him as an errand boy in the eyes of the others, and he hated that.

§§§

"The king will not do that," Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, uttered in disbelief.

The duke gulped ale and sat in an oak chair with two pairs of curved legs crossing beneath the seat and rising to support the arms and back. His private quarters were illuminated by candles on iron sconces; the crackling fire in the hearth provided warmth from the nasty weather outside.

With the remembrance of the king's mad rage at Mary's refusal to wed a Protestant prince, Brandon thought of how fortunate the bastardized princess had been that he had defended her.

Mary had declared while staring intrepidly into Henry's eyes, "Your Majesty's insistence that I jeopardize my immortal soul by marrying a heretic illustrates our religious differences. You abjured the true faith when you broke with the Vatican, so I'm not astonished by your demand."

An incensed Henry had darted to her. "Don't you dare, you impudent brat! I am Supreme Head of Church of England, and anyone who says otherwise is a traitor. You signed the Oath, and I'll forget, for the last time, your offensive words, but you will yield to my will."

She had angled her chin defiantly. "Even if I were a scrawny girl who has not had any meal in days, I would not have begged a heretic to give me a crust of bread. By the Gospel, the canons, civil law, and custom, heretics must be burned. I shall not be a heretic's wife!"

"You are your blasted mother's daughter," her parent had screamed. "You cannot escape the fate I designate for you. You must show me that you have learned obedience and humility."

Henry had fisted his hand to strike Mary. Charles had rushed across the room to them.

"Your Majesty, she is your daughter," Suffolk had uttered with a shudder.

The monarch had slapped Mary across the face. He had raised his hand again, but she had scurried off to a window. Henry had run after her, but Charles had jumped in front of her.

"Please, don't do that, sire," Suffolk had implored, shielding Mary with his body.

With pleas and various artifices, Brandon had managed to convince the king to let Mary go. She had then stormed out of the chamber, as though all her nerves were set on fire.

How could Henry be willing to harm to his own fresh and blood? It was one thing to force Mary into an arranged marriage, and another one to treat her so savagely. Didn't the king see that she had grown into a fine young lady, with a mind so strong and a heart so big that those who met Mary admired her at first glance? Hadn't she once been the jewel of Henry's world?

 _Mary is an ideal daughter,_ Brandon mused. She would sedulously have cultivated the spirit of contentment in the Tudor family, if only her father had given her a few crumbs of his praise and love. Like her late mother, Mary was intelligent and capable of counseling the king in politics, so doing the best for the realm, not seeking to add to the burden her father must carry as a king.

The two men had been close friends since their boyhood. Years ago, Henry had been Duke of York, sulking that he had not been an heir but a spare destined for the career in the Church. Back then, Charles had believed that Henry would be a better and merrier king than the quiet and somber Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales, could have been. Later, Brandon had been grateful to Henry for elevating him to the rank of a wealthy duke. Now Charles was truly shocked.

The Duke of Suffolk looked up at his wife's voice. "How are you, Charles?"

"Quite bad." The duke drained the contents of his goblet.

"I knew I would find you here." Catherine closed the door and crossed the chamber. "It must be impossible for you to sleep after that scene in His Majesty's apartments."

"It was horrible." He set the cup back on a nearby table.

She went to a table in the corner and poured for him a cup of wine. She herself had never developed a taste for ale, convinced that it was not a beverage for people of high ranks.

Charles watched Catherine move like a nymph, a blend of elegance, strength, and sadness glowing in her countenance. He was in love with this young creature! In a modestly cut gown of yellow and black damask passmented with gold, she looked beautiful and lithe, with soft skin and eyes like green almonds. Her straight, long, brown hair was braided into a coronet atop her head, but the angular Gable hood, which was popular at court, did not fit Catherine's ensemble.

Being his fourth spouse, Catherine Brandon was not only the Duchess of Suffolk, but also _suo jure_ Baroness Willoughby de Eresby as the only heir of William Willoughby and Maria de Salinas. In 1528, at her father's death, Catherine's wardship had fallen to the monarch, who had sold it to his then-brother-in-law – Charles. For some time, Catherine had been betrothed to Henry Brandon, Earl of Lincoln and Suffolk's son with Princess Mary Tudor, who had passed away in 1534. But Suffolk hadn't wanted to lose Catherine's inheritance and married his ward.

Fortunately, they had fallen in love. For the first time in his lewd life, Charles had been under the indescribable spell of womanhood when he had taken Catherine's virginity in the same way as a gardener treated a delicate flower. Despite the significant age gap, they saw themselves as soulmates: blessed with two sons, Henry and Charles, the latter born just this year. The duke had lived with the ardor of a man whose heart had just awakened … until the rebellion in the north.

Catherine handed the cup to him. "For you."

"Thank you," muttered Charles after swallowing some wine.

She settled into a matching chair beside him. "What is the king intending to do?"

"To use Princess Mary as his pawn, as is his right as her liege lord and father. His Majesty wants to establish a Protestant alliance with German princes. He strives to be friends with King François' allies because of France's currently extremely strong position in European politics."

She frowned. "Why does he need that?"

Twirling his cup in his hands, Charles watched the red liquid swish back and forth. "By doing so, our sovereign will have the chance to destabilize France's relationship with Germany in case King François abolishes the religious tolerance in his realm. Although the whore is his queen, France will remain a Catholic nation. If necessary, François will lash out against that preposterous new religion spreading through the circles of French evangelicals and humanists."

"That Boleyn witch," hissed Catherine, her pretty features transforming into a scowl of visceral hate. "Her crimes against the late Queen Catherine and the Princess Mary are abominable. Her sins of harlotry and witchcraft disqualified her forever from God's absolution."

Charles tipped his head. "Thomas Cromwell, Nicholas Carew, Edward Seymour, and I – we all wanted His Majesty to marry Jane Seymour. Together we destroyed the harlot."

She was aware of the conspiracy against Anne. "It was a fair deed, husband."

"Nevertheless, Queen Jane has failed to produce a prince."

"So far," Catherine hoped. "The Lord will bless Queen Jane's marriage to the king."

"Perhaps." He emptied the cup and placed it on the table. "She does not have much time left. But even if the king never has a son, Princess Mary may rule well."

Catherine had recently become secretly interested in church reform. "My mother remained loyal to Queen Catherine until her last day. We have not acknowledged the sham of His Majesty and the whore's marriage as a legal, valid union." Her voice thinned as unease freshened within her. "But if Catherine's daughter ascends the throne, will she restore Catholicism?"

His lips moved to form words unpleasant for her. "I'm not a deeply religious man, but I've never supported our sovereign's perverse reforms caused by his obsession with that slut."

To Brandon's surprise, Catherine did not castigate Anne this time. "The restoration of the old regime will lead to suffering, for our country is now religiously divided. Because of corruption in the Catholic Church, Luther's and Calvin's teachings have spread widely."

The duke did not concur that the religion of his forefathers was wrong. "Indeed, the greed and wealth of the clergy has created a split between the peasants and themselves. Nonetheless, there are more Catholics in England than Protestants and Lutherans. If the realm is returned to the Vicar of Rome, there will be little resistance and only few burnings of the most ardent heretics."

Accusation glittered in her expression. "When the king appointed you and the Duke of Norfolk commanders of the royal army and sent you both to crush the uprising, I urged you to take a merciful approach towards the rebels. But you did not, Charles!"

The ensuing silence bristled with tension. A pause pressured with pent-up stress.

The more Catherine learned about her husband, the more painful her understanding of him became. The remembrance of the dreadful atrocities he had committed on their sovereign's orders tormented her every day, just as the ghosts of his infidelities did. Although she had witnessed Charles waking up in cold sweat from his nightmares time and time again, she believed that there was no forgiveness for the murders of those insurgents. You should not have done that, Charles.

He frowned, kneading his forehead. "You know that at first, I endeavored to make peace with the mutineers, who refused to disperse their troops. The king wanted to make an intimidating example by executing hundreds after he had entrapped Aske and his followers."

The Suffolk spouses glowered at each other. Memories deluged them like an avalanche crashing over the rocks: a horrified Catherine had pleaded for Charles not to kill the rebels and their families, even if it meant facing the monarch's disfavor. Despairingly, she had compared the innocent civilians to their own beloved sons, but his answer had broken her world into pieces.

 _What if they were your own children, Charles?! I shall still have to do it._

Those words stood between Charles and Catherine like a heap of thorns. With each passing moment, the wedge between them was growing wider. She had thought that her spouse could be only a bright companion to her for the days of sunshine, but not one in the crises of her life. His unwillingness to go against the ruler's abhorrent orders had painted him as a colorless individual in her mind. Later, she had lost their baby, which had added a huge amount of her grief.

At last, the Duke of Suffolk repeated what he had told her after his arrival from the north. "Every true subject is bound by the commandment of God to serve their sovereign, so I had to carry out that massacre. And I would have executed anyone and in any number to ensure that none of my family would find themselves at the receiving end of the king's wrath."

"Self-sacrifice is one of the loveliest attributes of human character. However, it has never been an attribute of yours, Charles." Sarcasm was dripping from her lips like venom.

"Catherine, please…" His countenance was tortured before he switched to another subject. "Queen Catherine would be spinning in her grave if Mary were to become a heretic's consort."

"I'm tired." She forced herself to be cautious: as much as she did not want to be with her husband, he did not need to know anything about her religion. "I'll retire for the night."

"Of course, wife." His voice betrayed his chagrin.

Catherine stood up. "Help Her Highness." She marched away.

A shard of ire stabbed through the Duke of Suffolk. If only the king had not sanctioned that massacre, now his wife would not barely tolerate his presence, and she would not have miscarried. The amiable temper and mutual understanding that had once existed between them was a premise for matrimonial bliss, but Catherine and Charles had lost them in the rivers of the rebels' blood.

Staring into the flames in the fireplace, Charles sat quiet for a considerable time. A pang of longing for Catherine and his children from his previous marriages filled the duke. The monarch would not permit him to leave court, so he would not spend time with his offspring. But his wife was here, and in spite of her coldness to him, he loved Catherine. _Maybe we will create a new babe tonight, and it will help us heal,_ Charles speculated as he headed to their bedchamber.

* * *

 _I hope you are all staying safe from Covid 19. I'm staying in lockdown in Tuscany at least until mid-April._

 _Thank you for reading this chapter! I hope you liked it and will let me know what you think. My mission now is to review other authors more often. As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 at ._

 _Queen Marguerite de Navarre is my one of favorite historical figures. According to contemporary French sources, there are two versions of her marriage to Henri d'Albert, King of Navarre. The first is that they loved each other deeply despite their age difference. The second version is that due to Marguerite's frequent sojourns at her beloved brother's court, Henri distanced himself from her and had mistresses. In B2K and several sequels, the first version is developed; in CWL, I take the second approach. In history, Marguerite's first marriage to Charles, Duke d'Alençon, was childless for some reason, so I took the liberty here – she had miscarriages._

 _We are back at the English court, which is moving to Leeds Castle. Jane Seymour and her relatives are of course desperate now because they can lose everything if Jane does not have a son. Anne Bassett is ambitious and wants to supplant Jane on the throne. As for Anne Boleyn's English allies, I repeat that the Duke of Norfolk will be Anne's ally, not Mary's despite his religious beliefs, and partly it will be connected with the shock produced by the Pope's deals (I cannot say more, these events are distant). The storm is brewing at the Tudor court. Do you feel it? Poor Jane!_

 _In history, the Duke of Suffolk did not kill those hapless insurgents in the north of England. The showrunners twisted it, making him the murderer of thousands of innocents. In B2K, Suffolk is not responsible for that, but given that CWL is an artistic fiction not for publication (who knows what will happen next…), I decided to take the show's version of events._

 _Guys, let's support each other and make each other smile! Stay safe!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	26. Chapter 25: The Queens' Competition

**Chapter 25: The** **Queens' Competition**

 ** _December 25, 1537, Château de Fontainebleau,_ _Fontainebleau, France_**

On Christmas Day, hordes of courtiers swarmed a long, spacious gallery, high ceilinged and imperious. Hundreds of them were eating ravenously and chatting animatedly beneath the golden chandeliers, the candlelight dancing on the frescoed walls and ceiling. Their sumptuous clothes and jewelry shimmered like a rainbow among marble sculptures, brought from Italy by Francesco Primaticcio, and the bronze sculptures, which the artist had created at Fontainebleau.

Two weeks earlier, the court had moved from Paris to Fontainebleau. The royal children, including Anne's daughter, had not been sent away to their own household.

François sipped wine. "Soon we will start our plan."

Anne leered. "Vengeance is sweet when served cold."

He disliked her fixation on revenge. "Of course, Anne."

The king and queen were seated at the table under a canopy of purple silk, gorgeously decorated with Valois heraldic ornaments. King Henri of Navarre and his wife, Marguerite, occupied their places next to the French couple. Sitting beside Dauphine Catherine de' Medici, Dauphin Henri was frigid and reticent, feeling ill at ease every time he looked at his spouse. Prince Charles and Princess Marguerite discussed in earnest the latest trends in French and Italian arts.

Queen Anne's relatives sat at the opposite side of the table. Lady Mary Stafford and Lady Elizabeth Boleyn experienced a strong sense of déjà vu as they remembered their life at the Valois court when Thomas Boleyn had served as the English ambassador to France. Mary let out a giggle as she recalled how she had laughed and danced at feasts and masques during those merry days in her youth, but her smile vanished as her gaze intercepted Anne de Montmorency's.

"Your compliments, François." Anne tilted her head. "You have changed your tune."

"So you have noticed." A mirthful François leaned back against his gilded throne. "You do not want coldness between us. But how hot should my song in your honor be?"

"Will it burn me alive?" she joked.

He touched her cheek. "You are already burning in my arms every night."

She blushed shifting her stare from him to the tapestry of the Goddess Aphrodite and her mortal lover, Adonis. "You are a king, a God in a way. So, who am I?"

He turned her chin to him again. "My goddess."

The couple watched the courtiers in silence. There were several tables in the gallery, each nearly groaning with the weight of victuals. A colossal variety of food was served: swan, goose, venison, pheasant, poultry, quail, mutton, pork, lamb, hare, and so forth. Each dish was spiced with ginger, pepper, cinnamon, saffron, cardamom, and spikenard.

François was now serious. "I have two gifts for you: my poem and a book."

"Go on, brother," Marguerite interposed.

 _Beside the idle, sad winter palace_

 _And in the vacant frosty days,_

 _Light came fluting down the ways,_

 _Where my Anne was loitering with me._

 _Who has not welcomed, they retired,_

 _Our jocund minstrels and their tunes,_

 _Yet, they entertained us to no avail,_

 _Until my Anne sent me her smile._

 _Then we listened to the music of joy,_

 _We two were free to eagerly fancy_

 _Our brilliant court and each other._

 _Since this day, in terror and amaze_

 _We will not be alone but only at gaze_

 _Of one another's laughs and smiles,_

 _With them for the rest of our days._

A ripple of applause rang out as François finished, exaltation tingling in everyone's veins.

It dawned upon Anne, like the sun beginning to peak over the horizon, that she cared for François. Her romantic dream resurfaced: she wanted serene harmony to accompany her in the matrimonial journey, leaving discord behind. Perhaps she would be happy with the monarch.

§§§

"Bravo, brother!" King Henri of Navarre praised. "You have a great talent in poetry." Due to her long sojourns at her brother's court, he remained to celebrate Christmas with his wife.

François laughed. "I do!"

Henri d'Albert took his wife's hand tenderly. "Margot also has talents in literature."

Marguerite smiled at him cordially. "Not as many as my dear brother has."

Henri claimed, "Only weak minds refuse to be influenced by literature."

François smiled. "It expresses what cannot be put into words and what cannot remain silent."

Marguerite noted, "François is especially prolific when he writes for a unique dame."

"I see." Queen Anne flushed from either satisfaction or jealousy. She was aware that her husband had created poems for some of his mistresses, including her own sister.

"Father, I love it!" Prince Charles exclaimed. Princess Marguerite nodded.

"This is a great verse, my liege!" lauded Clément Marot, who had been permitted to seat at the royal table. "You have honed your own distinct writing style to perfection."

"Lovely." Dauphin Henri gazed towards another table, where his mistress was seated.

Dauphin Catherine de' Medici assessed, "Many Italian poets and critics define poetry as a creative art of endeavoring to inculcate morality and to express their passion for life. Others say that the function of poetry is to convey ideas in concrete and sensuous images, while the function of prose is to create intellectual material. I disagree and believe that poetry is artistic and creates knowledge, just as prose does. Good poetry and prose are like a bouquet of fresh flowers."

"Catherine, please–" Dauphin Henri began, only to be interrupted.

François opined, "Indeed, Catherine. Five types of poetry are mentioned in Aristotle's _Poetics_ : epic, dramatic, dithyrambic, satiric, and lyric, all described in detail. In my opinion, the writers of each class are capable of creating deep emotion and intellectual thought."

Marguerite loved such discussions. "Aristotle insisted that the common element in all the arts is movement that is a characteristic of poetry, just as color and form characterize painting and sculpture. I do not concur with him because color and form are important to a poet."

Anne asserted, "Aristotle's theory of poetry has influenced modern poetry profoundly. However, in ancient times, little of Greek or Roman literary criticism was concerned with poetical theory as opposed to the keen interest of their critics in oratory."

The dauphin opined, "Plato saw poetry as something unreal, yet it is more real than prose."

"He was mistaken on this occasion." Marguerite raised her goblet. "My brother's talent in poetry is as realistic as our triumph over the Habsburg Empire. To the king's brilliance!"

Elizabeth Boleyn echoed, "To His Majesty's numerous virtues!" It was the first time she had spoken aloud freely; before, she had quietly conversed with her daughter, Mary.

"To the king and queen's happiness!" Mary Stafford included her sister deliberately.

Everyone drank to the monarch of France, predicting that the rest of his reign would be more resplendent than the Pax Romana during the reign of Emperor Octavius Augustus.

Anne emptied her goblet and set it on the table. "François, I like that your subjects have reinforced parallels between your reign and ancient Rome. Maybe you will avoid wars."

François drained his cup and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into her face. "They are not only my subjects, but also _yours_. It is _our_ reign, Anne."

"Perhaps," she breathed.

"Another gift!" At his request, his page brought something wrapped in black velvet.

Anne's brow arched. "What is it, François?"

The king smirked at her. "Patience is a virtue, my dearest wife."

The queen could not help but admit to her own curiosity. "I don't possess it now."

He commented rhetorically, "I've seen many storms in my life. Most of them have caught me by surprise, so I had to learn the art of patience and the art of taming the fury of nature."

"You will experience the devastating fury of my temper if you don't gift it to me now."

François howled with laughter. "Your temper may be like a tempest outriding the wind."

Her curiosity fully piqued, Anne hastily unfolded the object. The title of the small leather-bound volume in her hands was embossed in gold letters – _The Aeneid by Virgil_.

"I suppose you find my gift remarkable, wife."

Anne arched a brow. "Why?"

The space between them electrified as the monarch inched closer. "Once you compared yourself with Aeneas. Indeed, you traveled to France and to me, just as that Trojan hero arrived in Italy and became the first true hero of Rome over time. You remember what he did later."

It was her turn to lean closer to him. Anne found his festivous grin infectious and smiled in return. "Latinus, King of the Latins, welcomed Aeneas and his army of exiled Trojans. Aeneas and the king's daughter, Lavinia, became ancestors of Romulus and Remus."

"Aeneas founded a new dynasty." His uneasy gaze flew to both of his two sons.

"Well, I do not need to do that. God bless all of Queen Claude's children!"

He glanced back at her. "God save and protect them!"

Her fingers caressed the volume. "Are you truly happy with _my new pregnancy_?" They had discovered it a week ago, but Anne did not want to make any official announcement yet.

"Of course, I am." Elation brightened François' features.

Everyone noticed the royal couple's exhilaration, and speculation became rife.

§§§

Diane de Poitiers sauntered over to a table to fill her platter with gooseberry tarts and heron. Although she normally liked socializing, today's festivities were nothing but a bore to her.

She had no sooner sat down when Dauphin Henri appeared next to her.

He kissed her hand ardently. " _Mon chérie_ , I've missed you so."

She put her platter on a nearby low table. "Me too, my prince."

Henri drank in her features, which were untouched by time. As usual, her gown was of black and white brocade ornamented with pearls, a triangle stomacher of matching taffeta shimmering with gems. A silver headdress of goldsmith's work, a diamond girdle around her waist, and a massive diamond necklace on her bosom enhanced the shimmering quality of her appearance. _By all that is holy, my Diane has no idea how beautiful she is,_ he thought, his heart lurching.

He bent his head to his paramour. "My lips are seeking for your sweet ones, from which I may drink life. You are my most beloved, Diane! If we were together, I would have kissed you with all of my pent up passion, just as I did when we consummated our romance."

A grin flourished on her visage. "It happened in my gardens."

He lavished her hands with kisses. "I would gladly hold you in my arms forever."

Slavish devotion to her reflected in his gaze, and Diane grinned at Henri. Her smile was that of faux meekness and benevolence, but in his opinion, it was that of a superior race of beings. The young man worshiped this woman, whom his father had several years earlier appointed to teach him courtly manners, as if Diane were a goddess in some ancient shrine.

The mistress recalled the day when she had allowed Henri to take her for the first time. They had been in Château d'Anet, which was part of the domains of Diane's deceased husband – Louis de Brézé, Seigneur d'Anet, Count de Maulévrier and Grand Seneschal of Normandy. She had led the prince through a park and into a small walled garden with a meadow, terracotta vases, and classic busts. Then Henri had whispered words of love to Diane and embraced her with such an amorous effusion that she had surrendered to him, and they had coupled on the grass.

Her lover's face appeared pale. "What is it, Henri?"

"My father is in love with the queen," he voiced his conclusion.

"Henri, your relationship with the king must be amicable. You cannot antagonize those who favor your younger brother over you. Your father loves you, so open your heart to him."

A frown plucked at his forehead. "I cannot forgive him for my captivity."

"You must," his paramour insisted. "Or you risk alienating His Majesty from you."

Henri switched to another topic. "I'm worried about Queen Anne's religious beliefs."

Diane, too, found her thoughts wandering to Anne, wishing that the other woman had not married King François. "As a devout Catholic, I share your concerns. But His Majesty will not allow her to commit heresy in public; she regularly attends Mass with him."

"I hope so." He stood up and added, "I must return to the royal table."

"Keep a veneer of politeness towards your wife."

"Catherine de' Medici," the prince spat the name like a curse. "She is ugly."

"But she is your wife! Regardless of your wishes."

The dauphin begged, "Meet me this evening!"

"Yes." His lover's smile shone like her jewels.

A calculative creature beneath her displayed sweetness, Diane could not believe she had just consented to have a rendezvous with him again. Now Henri had a power over her that he had never wielded before, and her own passion for him could make her vulnerable, which frightened her. Before she had the chance to back out, he winked at her, then bowed deeply.

"I'll see you soon." Dauphin Henri took off in Catherine's direction.

For the better part of the banquet, Diane ate in silence, watching her lover. As the music changed from a stately pavane to a spirited tarantella, Henri led Catherine in a dance, his movements tinged with reluctance to be close to her. He looked so reserved that, Diane knew, he was wrapped up in his dreams of her, and she fretted over her earlier encouragement of him to pay attention to the dauphine so that Henri's ignorance of Catherine would not irk the monarch.

"Madame, are you unwell?" inquired Duke Charles de Guise.

Diane shook her head. "On the contrary, I've just been thinking."

He gauged her musings. "Dreaming of His Highness, aren't you?"

Her appetite completely gone, the prince's mistress handed her empty platter to a passing servant. "My relationship with Henri is not a secret. Your thoughts must be of the new queen."

"I'm sure they coincide. Rumors are that she is again pregnant."

Her eyebrow shot up. "So quickly after Princess Louise's birth?"

Disgust warped his countenance. "It was expected, given the king's attentions to her."

A hush ensued as the Valois spouses stood up. Courtiers jumped to their feet and dropped into bows and curtseys. François and Anne crossed the chamber and exited. Anne's mother and sister smiled triumphantly, and everyone clamored about their abrupt leaving.

Diane huffed, "It is peculiar how close His Majesty and that woman seem to have become over the past four months. Don't you find it a little unnerving?"

Guise nodded. "Too unnerving and even more inconvenient."

"Diane!" Henri nearly ran towards them. Seizing the opportunity to get rid of his spouse in his father's absence, he had deserted Catherine. "Come with me!"

Guise bowed, smirking. "Enjoy, Your Highness." He walked away.

The dauphin gushed, "I shall gift you a night of love, _mon amour_. You are the light of my life and the best woman at this depraved court! You are only mine!"

Triumph blazed in the depths of Diane's eyes. "Let's follow in His Majesty's footsteps." Tendrils of desire she had never known with her dead husband crept up, unbidden.

Catherine de' Medici observed her husband walk his paramour to the door. She wanted to roar in fury at the thought of Henri's flaunting his infidelities in front of her. Yet, no muscle twitched on her face as Catherine eased herself into one of the ivory and gold striped chairs. But as soon as she arranged her skirts and made herself comfortable, even the presence of her favorite ladies, who encircled the princess to comfort her, was suffocating her like a tight collar.

§§§

King Henri of Navarre discovered Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, in a festive crowd. Chabot stood with his spouse – Françoise de Longwy, who was the eldest daughter of Jeanne d'Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, the King of France's illegitimate half-sister.

"Your Majesty!" chorused Chabot and his wife as he bowed and she curtsied.

Henri began, "Monsieur de Chabot, I need to speak with you privately."

Nodding, Chabot told his spouse, "Françoise, I'll find you later."

Chabot and the Navarrese monarch walked to the distant corner of the chamber.

"How can I serve Your Majesty?" Chabot was intrigued, for the husband of François' sister had never sought his company. They were both François' friends, but not each other's.

Henri d'Albert asked bluntly, "I've not seen Madame d'Étampes at court at all. Is it really true that François sent her away? You two have always been allies. Where is she?"

Chabot's eyes widened fractionally. "The duchess was banished even before my sovereign expelled all of his former mistresses. Why are you interested in her, if I may ask?"

Henri contrived a plausible explanation. "When I last was at court, I borrowed from her a book about," he paused for a split second, looking around, "something that is prohibited in France."

"Radical Calvinism?" Now Chabot believed Henri because he knew of Marguerite's keen interest in evangelicals. "It should be discussed accurately despite our new queen's religion."

The monarch smiled: his trick seemed to be working. "There are things which I cannot ask even my wife to order from abroad. She would not do anything to disappoint her brother. At the same time, you and Madame d'Étampes share my interests in religious novelties."

Admiral de Brion answered, "She and I have a staunch belief in Calvin's teachings."

"Stauncher than François would approve of," the ruler stressed.

Chabot figured out the hint: their conversation about Anne de Pisseleu should remain secret. "I would gladly help Your Majesty. Madame d'Étampes is at her estates in Touraine."

The king tipped his head in gratitude. "I'll dispatch a page with the book to her, then."

"Careful," urged Chabot. "If the man is caught, King François might not be happy."

"I treasure my friendship with François." Henri smiled, but inwardly sighed.

Queen Marguerite of Navarre came to them. "Henri, _mon amour_! Let's go!"

Philippe de Chabot dropped into a bow, and then left to find his wife.

King Henri kissed his wife's hand. "Is François declaiming his poems?"

Marguerite shook her head. "I'll read for you all some stories from my _'Heptameron'_." She was an author in her own right, composing both poems and prose, just as her brother did.

As the Albert spouses crossed the room, Henri's mind drifted to Anne de Pisseleu. Memories swirled through his brain: their initial meeting during Eleanor of Austria's coronation, their first insane coupling in her bedroom on the following night, their clandestine rendezvous every time he had visited France, and the illicit thrill he had experienced at the thought of sharing the emerald-eyed beauty with his brother-in-law. _I pray that François and Margot never learn the truth._

They returned to the main table. Taking the volume that contained her own stories, his wife began reading them aloud, and everyone applauded her. Henri smiled at Margot, but his heart was leaden because of her inability to give him a home. As he envisaged the years of dull loneliness ahead in Navarre, Henri itched to escape from it, just as Daphne, daughter of the river-god Peneus, fled from Apollo. Anne de Pisseleu's lovely face floated before Henri's eyes again.

§§§

"I shall find His Majesty on my own," Queen Anne told her maids, who all giggled.

Anne headed to the study adjacent to the François I gallery, where the monarch frequently worked or read one of the numerous volumes from his library. More than an hour ago, her husband had escorted the queen to her apartments and then departed again, having promised to return soon. However, he had not come yet. Had something gone wrong between them again?

 _These are my fantasies,_ Anne assured herself. The court still celebrated Christmas, so the palace was quiet. She slipped into the study and eyed her surroundings. Pieces of gilded furniture crowded the cozy study, and a fire in the hearth cast reflections across splendid Italian gold-woven tapestries and one frescoed wall, near which François leaned casually.

"Claude, you shall wed him as soon as possible." This intrigued Anne.

"As Your Majesty commands." His former mistress sounded resigned.

Anne tiptoed into the room and then squeezed herself deeply into the niche near the door. From there she could see two people: Claude de Rohan-Gié, whose outfit of russet damask, with a long, black, close-fitting stomacher, stressed the curves of her enlarged abdomen, and a relatively young man, whom Anne had met at court, but whose name had slipped from her mind.

The ruler glanced at his companion. "Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, do you understand?"

"Yes, my liege," the man answered. "I've always served you loyally. With lands and the position of Governor of Blois, I have more than enough to support myself and my bride."

"And my child." The monarch's words chilled the queen like a blustery wind.

"And _Your Majesty's baby_!" Saint-Aignan echoed.

The man was Claude de Beauvilliers, Count de Saint-Aignan. Set off by a doublet of red satin bedecked with gaudy ribbons and spangles, his pale-skinned face was unremarkable, with a bottle-shaped nose, fleshy lips, and gray eyes, glistening with roguery. Beneath his yellow velvet toque, his hair, which dangled in long flakes over his ears and neck, was of a raven black.

Claude perused her husband-to-be. "Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, your financial problems are solved. But I insist that you have your haircut changed before the wedding, for now your head looks like brambles in a blackberry patch. And please wear more tasteful garb."

His nostrils flared, but Saint-Aignan stifled his annoyance. "I'll comply with your wishes, Madame. As it is a marriage of convenience for us, we will not meet often."

"Excellent." Claude breathed out with relief.

An instant later, Anne stepped out of the niche, at last revealing herself. "That is such a charming conversation! But I need to borrow my husband." Her tone was stony.

A perturbed François veered his scrutiny to his consort. "Certainly." He enjoined, "You may both leave now. Don't forget, Saint-Aignan: you must treat your new family very well."

Claude bobbed an awkward curtsey, Saint-Aignan bowed. Then they hurried out.

The king crossed to his wife. "Anne, I did not intend to distress you."

The queen felt rather crushed. "Yet, you did, François."

A surge of guilt wrinkled his brow. "I set Claude aside in July, but she wrote to me last month about her condition; it was my duty to help her."

Her expression grew cooler. "Is that how you always cover the shame of your unmarried and pregnant mistresses? Given your philandering ways, you must have many bastards."

"Indeed, I used to have many affairs, but I did not acknowledge most of my illegitimate children. By the way, I do not have an army of bastards, as you implied – I do have some, but not as many as you think. If my unborn illegitimate child turns out to be a boy, he might pose a threat to the House of Valois and prevent the peaceful transfer of power in the future."

Anne countered, "Henry acknowledged the departed Duke of Richmond."

She discerned a tremor of what must be his abhorrence towards his rival running through François. "Henry does not have any healthy male issue, so he claimed Lady Blount's child as his. Richmond was his only son whom he could present to prove his virility."

"François!" She tottered towards him. "Don't betray me like Henry did."

He hugged her. "Anne, I've been faithful to you since I gave you this promise."

With trembling lips, she could only pronounce, "How can I believe you?"

The monarch's arms around her were like those of a knight saving his damsel. Not until her cries subsided did the queen realize that the possibility of Clade de Rohan-Gié having François' son before Anne's child would come into the world would haunt her for the rest of her pregnancy.

§§§

Soon Anne calmed down, but she still held the monarch at arm's length. Her thoughts went to one of their many meetings with Sir Francis Bryan during her cousin's stay in France.

The king was surprised. "What is wrong, Anne?"

She regarded him with more than a hint of exasperation. "You kept the Pope's letters sent to William Brereton in secret for months. Should you not have told me the truth, François?"

He accepted her rebuke cheerfully. "Madame, you treated me too coldly."

Anne sighed. "I know, and I'm sorry for that."

The couple discussed Sir Francis Bryan once more, their last meeting in particular.

"I'm fortunate to meet Your Majesties," Bryan had begun in a sarcastic undertone. "Unlike the Imperial ambassador Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle who is always denied an audience."

Everything in Francis Bryan – from his brown head of hair that was a bit longer than what was considered to be stylish, to his green eyes and his brazen countenance – radiated cynicism. His emerald doublet and his matching hose had made his overall appearance impressive.

François and Anne had settled themselves into two gilded armchairs.

The ruler had glanced the visitor up and down in the same way a man would look a horse on the market. "Your liege lord must have been furious that we vanquished the invaders. The balance of power in Europe has shifted. A turncoat such as yourself knows that well, Sir Francis."

The queen had interjected acidly, "A man who can desert his own mother for coins."

"I can't help being natural," the envoy had deadpanned.

Anne had grimaced. "Your soul is as dark as the dead of night, cousin."

Bryan had spluttered, "Your Majesty! My cousin! When you were apprehended, I was away from England. I distanced myself from the Boleyns and the Howards to avoid repercussions. I swear on my beloved mother's life that I did not hatch a plot against you with Cromwell."

Anne still dithered to make a conclusion about him. Her best instincts had told her that he had not told her falsehoods. Yet, he was an immoral man, so she had said, "It matters not."

François had refocused their attention on the subject at hand. "Instead of discussing the past, we must decide what we will do to rectify some of Henry's transgressions."

Bryan had nodded his affirmation. "I'll gladly listen to Your Majesty's plan."

"Is His Grace of Norfolk with us?" The king had wanted to know.

"Of course," had confirmed the envoy.

The ruler had laced his fingers with his wife's. "What do you think of Cromwell?"

Bryan had described, "Cromwell is so powerful that he cannot be annihilated easily."

François had climbed to his feet and strode to a chest of drawers. He had rummaged through them and found a pile of parchments. He had then approached Bryan and handed them to him.

The monarch had returned to his armchair. "These are the Pope's letters to Eustace Chapuys and William Brereton. My agents intercepted them more than a year ago."

Anne had gawked at him. "What?"

François had promised, "I'll explain everything to you later."

"What are these letters about?" the queen had quizzed.

The envoy from England had spoken with painstaking slowness, his scrutiny riveted to Anne. "No one could ever expect the Pope's involvement in your downfall, Your Majesty. Sir William Brereton was the Vatican's agent who was blessed by Pope Paul to assassinate you."

Anne had mumbled, "Someone tried to shoot me during the coronation in London."

"That could have been Brereton," had inferred Bryan.

She had been briefly thunderstruck before the pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. "Only Brereton falsely confessed to being my lover. I used to believe that he gave his testimony against me out of fear before torture. But Brereton must have seized the chance to dispose of me. After the arrests of my brother and friends, he realized that his confession would seal my fate, so he lied to Cromwell. He must have thought that he had fulfilled the Pope's mission."

Bryan had declared crudely, "I agree with Your Majesty's reasoning."

Anne had hissed, "That worm murdered my brother and my friends."

François had put in, "Sir Francis, your sovereign must learn about it. You and Norfolk should tell him that Cromwell is hiding some of the intelligence collected by his agents. You will have to persuade Henry that his chief minister not only stole a great deal of wealth from him during the barbaric Dissolution of the Monasteries, but also learned the truth about Brereton's identity and used the man to manufacture the charges against my wife, Anne."

The envoy had spat, "I'll eagerly send Cromwell to hell."

The ruler had smirked at the guest's decisive expression. "So far, you have not done a single thing to help someone who is totally innocent without any benefit for yourself."

Grimly holding the parchments, Francis Bryan had retaliated for their slighting treatment of him. "Innocent? Really? Her Majesty was the very reason why King Henry exiled his first wife, disinherited his eldest daughter, broke with Rome, and killed many of his subjects."

"Shut up!" François had raised his hand with authority. "I may start a parley with you as to who is guilty, but I shall not. In my eyes, you are an ill-mannered English mongrel."

"How kind to me you are, Bryan!" Glancing at her husband, she had speculated, "What is the typical punishment for humiliating foreign monarchs? Is that exile from our court?"

François had leaned back in his seat. "If we expel you from France in disgrace, Henry shall not grant you clemency. How splendid that would be, Sir Francis!"

Bryan had asserted in a pompous manner, "You need me to prove Queen Anne's innocence. And I need Princess Elizabeth to succeed King Henry in due time."

The king had ruminated, "Taking into account the childbearing histories of Henry's wives, he is unlikely to have a healthy son. So, Elizabeth may remain his only heir."

François Bryan had tipped a nod. "I think so after Queen Jane's miscarriage."

Anne's scorn for her family had resurfaced. "What reward do you and my uncle want?"

Bryan had averted his gaze, unable to withstand the chilly intensity of two brown pools. The Duke of Norfolk and Bryan craved to accomplish the highest Court positions in England.

The envoy had affirmed, "King Henry suffers from increasing weight and ulcers on his legs. He will not live for another ten years, during which we will all walk on eggshells around him."

François had glowered at him. "Your price?"

Bryan had elaborated, "In his current will, King Henry formed a Regency Council of sixteen men: those whom he trusts to keep his best interests in mind during Elizabeth's minority. His Grace of Norfolk and I deserve to play the most prominent roles in the Council."

"Norfolk wants to be Lord Protector," Anne had surmised.

"Quite right," Bryan had informed. "I'm dreaming of a dukedom."

The monarch had smirked oddly. "The illustrious Philip IV was called _the Fair_. But his rigid and inflexible personality earned him other nicknames such as _the Iron King_."

"What do you mean, sire?" Confusion had stained Bryan's countenance.

The ruler's voice had cut through the air like a prophetic message. "To rule as a king, a female monarch will have to develop and maintain a rigid personality and an iron will, using her charms in her political games. At present, Elizabeth Tudor is extraordinarily precocious and strong for her tender age. Will such a girl allow anyone to command her for long?"

"A woman cannot rule," had barked Francis Bryan.

Anne had cried with certainty, "She will!" François had nodded.

The king had affirmed, "His Grace of Norfolk and you will both get what you want. We shall give you other papers and tell you the rest of our stratagem tomorrow."

"You will not regret our cooperation, Your Majesties." Bryan had bowed and exited.

Snapping out of her memories, Anne concluded, "Bryan and Norfolk are with us."

"For now, they are now allies," François responded.

"Will your spies find more of the Pope's letters for Brereton?"

"They are now gathering more information to prove your innocence."

Anne was sick of all these plots. "I'm just tired of all these schemes."

"You are no longer angry with me? François asked.

His wife smiled. "No, I am not."

"Let's forget about it." He cut off the line of her negative thought.

François pulled his consort into his embrace, providing a feeling of security and belonging to her. They did not return to the feast and retired to her quarters. Her husband illuminated the twilight of her life, even though she was still cringing in the throes of her lingering woes.

* * *

 ** _December 25, 1537,_ _Leeds Castle, Kent, England_**

"I'm pleased with you," King Henry declared as he reclined in his throne, drumming at the jeweled armrests. "My subjects should all know that God has blessed me again."

"As you order, sire," Queen Jane's shuddering response came.

"What is wrong with you?" His voice was layered with irritation.

 _His Majesty does not even address me by my name_ , Jane mused sorrowfully. _He is my king, not Henry!_ Since the discovery of her pregnancy three days ago, her husband did not become tenderer with her. When he looked at his spouse, she felt that the sense of disappointment was in the same room with them, as though he anticipated that she would fail to bear him a male heir. Jane was relieved that her new babe had been conceived after her rape at the king's hands.

Jane was glad that Elizabeth Tudor had not arrived in Leeds as initially planned. The harsh winter weather had made the journey too tiresome and even perilous for a child, so the ruler had decreed that the princess and her household return to Eltham and wait there for his instructions.

"I'm fine, sire," the queen murmured, her gaze downcast on her platter full of fish.

"Are you feeling well?" This time, an intense worry latched onto his features.

Jane's countenance was solemn. "No, I am fine. I pray that I'll carry this child to term."

The ruler's gaze shifted to his mistress, Anne Bassett. "My dear Anne, as Jane needs to be exceedingly careful in her condition, she will go in confinement early."

"What a genius idea, Your Majesty!" Anne was impatient to be the first lady of court.

Jane was hurt, but obeyed. "Your Majesty, I shall do as you wish."

Sitting under a canopy of red silk emblazoned with the royal arms woven in gold, King Henry was surrounded by his queen at his left hand and his paramour at his right one. In the past several weeks, Anne had accompanied the monarch to all audiences with diplomats, and she had presided over banquets; the queen had been left forgotten in her rooms. At Christmas, Henry had summoned Jane to perform her functions of a queen by acting as a hostess during this feast.

The great hall was lit by many candles, and the tables were placed in a rectangular form. At the high table on a dais, where the ruler was seated, near him sat Mary Tudor, Thomas Cromwell, the Dukes of Suffolk and of Norfolk, as well as the Seymour brothers. Will Sommers, the royal jester, and a number of other nobles were present. Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, was also there, having arrived from his estates together with his wife, Gertrude Courtenay née Blount.

The feast was splendid, and all the provisions were of the best quality. A great deal of food was served: boar meat, roast tongue, pork, roast beef, meat pie, venison, capon, teal, gull, peacock, stork, gannet, heron, egret, and even dolphin. There were vegetables cooked with meat and fish. Most dishes were spiced with honey, red pepper vinegar, black pepper, cardamom, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Flowers were set upon all the tables to enhance the presentation of the feast.

All of a sudden, King Henry stood up and promulgated, "Queen Jane is carrying my son who shall be my golden Tudor prince." Now he was not even looking at Jane; he thought of what Anne had predicted about Elizabeth's destiny to usher England into a Golden Age.

After a short, startled silence, a chorus of exuberant cheers sounded in the room. Despite the king's harsh attitude to her, Queen Jane had many supporters among Catholics.

The ruler decreed, "For the child's safety, my queen will spend most of the time in her rooms. Lady Anne Bassett will replace Jane as a hostess at feasts and masques."

This was met with whisperings in melancholy accents, as well as glances of pity at Jane.

Anne purred, "You have made me so happy, sire." Her lover grinned at her broadly.

Henry resumed eating a lot, so servants frequently delivered new plates to the royal table. After he was done with legs of pork, he demanded that roasting pigs and haunches of venison on spits be given to him. Sometimes, Anne, Jane, and others looked askance at the monarch, whose mouth was always full of food. Their sovereign was so ravenous as if it were his final meal, and it was no wonder that he was gaining stones in weight in the absence of physical exercise.

Brandon informed, "Eustace Chapuys wants to give Your Majesty a Christmas gift."

Tipping his head in agreement, Henry watched the advance of the Imperial ambassador with a stern look, and after he had made an obeisance to him, he motioned the man to rise.

The king quizzed acridly, "Has your master recovered from his wounds? He fled from the battlefield, which is a shame for a general."

With some effort, Chapuys throttled his rage back. "His Imperial Majesty is working hard for the prosperity of his vast realm." He snapped his fingers, and his secretary brought a large silver cross for prayer, which was adorned with diamonds. "This is Spain's gift for you, sire."

The monarch continued eating. "Good. You are dismissed."

As a royal groom took the gift from his page, Eustace Chapuys bowed and left.

Henry turned to his eldest daughter. "Mary, you shall marry young William, Duke of Cleves and Count of Mark. He is ready to wed you without any dowry."

Mary said nothing, but her temper boiled like water in a kettle. The queen and many others shot her sympathetic glances, but she ignored them, for she had a plan to fulfill.

Antoine de Castelnau, the French ambassador to England, dared approach the table. Now more than anything he yearned to rub into the English king's face the news from France.

Henry was chewing his venison. "You have sought an interview with me."

"I have a gift for you from my liege lord," began Castelnau, "and a word from him."

"Hand it to my groom." The ruler finished off his cup of ale.

The ambassador put in, "You can wear it on any occasion."

Those who sat beside King Henry gaped at the fabulous girdle that consisted of diamonds and onyxes. Yet, they wondered why it was so long and was set too thick with onyxes.

"Why is it of such length?" Henry observed his groom pick up the girdle from the hands of the diplomat's secretary. "And these onyxes…" As he envisaged Anne's dark eyes, he realized why François had sent this gift, and then blasted, "Your master is a cunning fox! How I wish he had been killed during the Spanish invasion of France, or died of the French disease."

Many guessed why the girdle was that long. As Henry was putting on weight, it was a useful gift for him because one day, he would need to have his wardrobe changed. François' joke was so acrimonious that it irked Suffolk, but amused Norfolk. Perhaps the monarch had not understood why the girdle was of such length, for he could not admit to his own imperfection.

Castelnau stated equanimously, "King François is healthy. Contrary to your wishes, he has never suffered from what you call the French disease, and what on the continent is viewed as Italian or English one. In fact, I've received glorious news: Queen Anne is _enceinte_ again."

The ambassador felt uncomfortable, for he had voiced the tidbits that had not yet been made official at the French court. King François, who trusted Castelnau, had confided in him about his consort's condition, but he had been meant to keep the information confidential. However, when Castelnau had heard about Queen Jane's pregnancy, he had failed to ward off the urge to prove to the Tudor peacock, as he called Henry in his mind, that his former wife was more fertile.

Bewildered stillness allowed Henry's growls and curses to echo with menace.

"Get out, you imbecile!" Henry's eyes glittered with beastly hatred.

Sniggering, Antoine de Castelnau swooped a gallant bow and vacated the room.

"Celebrate without me." The monarch bounced to his feet.

In silence full of trepidation, the ruler quitted the chamber, his spirits lower than ever. As the door slammed shut behind him, the court exploded with speculation about Anne.

A sullen Queen Jane and her relatives soon left as well. Mary Tudor, to the queen's surprise, wanted to stay, her gaze intersecting the Duke of Suffolk's from time to time.

§§§

The Duke of Suffolk exited into the main courtyard lit by torches. His stride as wide as if he were an all-out run, he hurried to the stables at the opposite end. He prayed that the plan of Mary's escape, which Eustace Chapuys had masterminded, would not be diverted.

Charles Brandon stepped round the corner of the barn. He peered across to where a mare was nuzzling the neck of Catherine of Aragon's daughter. Accoutered in a gown of silver damask worked with birds and pomegranates, Mary looked like a woman who had left the feast on a whim; her high square neckline and her black hood with a veil attested to her Spanish tastes.

"Your Highness," Charles commenced. As they were now alone, he addressed her by the title that, in his opinion, had always belonged to her. "You ought to be more careful. Your silk slippers are completely covered in mud and filth. How will you travel wearing them?"

"I don't care!" Mary's throat ached from the effort of keeping her feelings in check.

When she merely raised a tearful eye from above the straggly mane of the mare, he uttered, "You are leaving today. The coast is very close, and you will board a ship tomorrow."

"England is my home. Yet, I'm running away from my own court in the dead of night like a criminal. That will be a mighty victory for _her_ when _she_ receives a word about it."

Charles was confused. "For whom?"

"That Boleyn witch!" Mary shrilled like the nasty sound of an old pipe. At the sight of Suffolk putting a finger to his lips, she lowered her voice and spoke deprecatingly. "She led the king astray, and he broke with the Holy Father. She bewitched him into abandoning my mother and abjuring the true faith. As a result, His Majesty commands me to marry that heretic."

He flinched at the bitterness in her tone. "My princess, you will have a new life. Leave your hatred behind. Forgiveness is the best thing you can do, and it is the key to your happiness."

Turning to him, the bastardized woman glowered at him with a fierceness that caused the baffled duke to step back. "That is quite an insult to me, Your Grace. You might consider my talk hysterical, but you have never been deprived of everything: not only of your status, your privileges, and your beloved mother, but also of your future crown and of your own country."

"God is testing Your Highness." Suffolk, too, loathed Anne wholeheartedly.

"My father…" Her voice slurred from the weeping and the wine she had ingested tonight. "Since the king's wedding to Queen Jane, I've maintained my dignity in the face of his continual denigration. But he has said no kind word to me and kept me at an arm's length."

The lady's words became muffled as she buried her face in the docile horse's flank.

The Duke of Suffolk was not accustomed to comforting a distressed woman, in particular royalty. But in the dim-light of the barn, illumined by a torch, with her hair ruffled out of its careful coiffure and the vision of misery Mary presented, he could not help himself: he closed the distance between them and put his hands on her shoulders, then drew her round to face him.

"My noble-minded Princess Mary," he told her as he peered gently into her gloomy, hazel eyes. "I'm sure that your father, the King of England, had no intention of causing you and your mother such enormous heartbreak. I agree that the Boleyn harlot, with the aid of her craft, her charms, or perhaps even sortilege, compelled His Majesty to do numerous horrible things."

Pulling herself together, Mary stepped away from him. "Yes, it is only her fault."

Suffolk's voice was insistent and soft as he continued to persuade her. "Your Highness, now a new life stretches ahead of you – one of uncertainty, but also one full of all kinds of possibilities. You only have to voyage through sea and Europe, and land in Spain safely."

"Indeed." She drew in a shuddering breath. "I should not have behaved in this way."

"I understand your pain," soothed Suffolk. "Even great queens may cry."

Mary's tears dried. "I remember my mother weep because of His Majesty's many liaisons."

The Duchess of Suffolk's shout interrupted them. "We must go!"

Catherine Brandon darted into the stables like a tempest, followed by Eustace Chapuys.

As his gaze rested on Mary, Chapuys reported, "Your Highness, I have a litter awaiting us. We will head to the coast and embark a ship in Dover. We will travel incognito."

"I'm ready to go, Your Excellency." A composed Mary nodded, her chin set high.

"We will be accompanied by my most loyal men. The emperor must be waiting for us in Granada or Valladolid." Chapuys placed her hand on his arm to escort her to the litter.

"Thank you." Mary let out a faint smile. Turning to Catherine, she requested, "Queen Jane needs the support of those who love her, especially in her condition."

"I shall help Queen Jane if necessary." Truth be told, Catherine was not sure that she would be able to comfort Jane lest another miscarriage sent the king into a frenzy of rage.

"You have a big heart, Lady Suffolk," Mary commented, her gaze oscillating between the Brandon spouses. "May the love you share today get stronger as you grow old together."

Tearing her gaze from them, Mary did not see Catherine wince. The Duchess of Suffolk glanced frostily at her spouse, who sent her a smile, but she averted her scrutiny. Mary's wishes were ill-timed, for now the wedge between Charles and Catherine was greater than ever.

"We must hurry," prodded Eustace Chapuys.

The ambassador led Mary Tudor out of the stables and into the courtyard. He assisted her in climbing into the litter swathed in some inexpensive black fabric so as not to attract attention during their trip. Inside she met another of her many supporters – Sir Nicholas Carew, who bowed to her deeply. In spite of her earlier breakdown in the stables, Mary's spirits were sufficiently high once the litter began moving, and now her mind was concentrated on her future.

"I did not attend the feast," Carew started. "I had to organize everything. This litter is mine, but as it is not adorned with any coat-of-arms, no one will know who is travelling inside."

Mary addressed, "Thank you for your help, Sir Nicholas."

Chapuys interposed, "You are doing the Lord's work for our princess."

Carew crossed his hands over his chest. "Protecting Your Highness is an honor for me. You are England's only hope to have it restored back to the flock of Rome. I pray, just as many others do, that time will come when you will return to your homeland as our queen."

She recalled her mother's words about her destiny. "I was raised to be the Queen of England. One day, justice will be restored, and I shall play an important role in England's history."

"You will," Carew assured. "We Englishmen are true servants of the Vatican and Christ, ones who carry strength, courage, and greatness in our blood. Unlike the French, we do not flaunt our importance and supposedly superior intelligence and culture. We are quiet and patient, but we think smartly, wait for as long as necessary, act wisely, and work collaboratively to accomplish great things. The Spanish share some of these traits with us, although they are impulsive."

Mary tipped her head. "That is a fair estimate."

"The English and the Spanish are not buffoons." Chapuys jeered, "But every time I meet a Frenchman, I feel as if you were attending a play that pokes fun at their extravagant manners."

The criticism of the French nation elicited smiles from them.

Alarm crested in Mary again. "Will we not be found out?"

Chapuys forewarned, "Your Highness, be brave! We have thought all things through, but the journey will be long and tiresome. I pray that everything will go smoothly."

"I'm not afraid," she assured. "In several months, I'll meet with my Spanish family."

Chapuys smiled. "Their Imperial Majesties will be delighted to see their cousin."

"I'd love to meet the emperor," Carew shared his dreams.

Mary sighed. "The only people I'll miss in England are Queen Jane and my sister, Elizabeth. I regret that I was unable to tell Jane about my escape, and to say goodbye to Lizzy."

"That brat is–" The diplomat broke off under Mary's intensely disapproving glance.

"I agree with Chapuys," joined Carew.

"Don't insult my sister," she ordered. "Lizzy is innocent of her mother's sins."

Carew changed the subject. "I shall accompany you only to the port. I have to return to the castle, or they will start searching for you earlier than necessary."

"Then we will part ways very soon," Mary deduced, and Carew nodded.

"God bless Your Highness!" Carew cried. "You are our future queen!"

The litter was moving through a deep ravine that bordered with the coastline. They had to use the roads where the monarch's border troops would not spot them.

In the meantime, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk were on their way back to the banquet. Catherine disengaged herself from his arm and walked at a distance from him in silence. Catherine strove to get away from Charles. But no matter what she wanted he was her husband, even if she could not go back to the easy camaraderie and love which they had once shared.

* * *

 _I hope you are all safe from Covid-19. I'm staying in lockdown in Tuscany. Be well!_

 _Thank you for reading this chapter! Let me know what you think. As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 at ._

 _The romance between Anne and François is budding, but so far, the king's feelings are unrequired. Finally, she is pregnant! There was no birth control back then, especially not for royalty, so Anne is highly likely to have many pregnancies – or perhaps not. Royals were almost always inbred, but Anne and François are not related, so their progeny must be strong and have a very good chance to survive as their offspring are not affected by inbreeding depression._

 _All the intellectual conversations portray a classical Renaissance court. The information about Plato, Aristotle, and other philosophers is historically correct. The poem is mine, as always._

 _King Henri of Navarre had a secret affair with Anne de Piselleu d'Heilly. Anne was banished, but one day she might come back; the question is whether she still wants to be with François. As I once mentioned, she will have an interesting character arc in this AU. Marguerite of Navarre is a woman of letters, whose heart belongs to France and the Valois family; in the future, François will need his great sister like air to breathe to serve as his regent._

 _Don't throw stones into Dauphin Henri. He is very young at this stage, his blood is boiling with desire for Diane de Poitiers. Let him grow up and mature – he will surprise you._

 _In history, Claude de Rohan-Gié was married twice. Her first husband died in 1541: he was Claude I de Beauvilliers, Count de Saint-Aignan, Seigneur de Thoury, de La Ferté-Hubert and de Salle les Cléry. Later, she remarried Julien de Clermont-Savoie._

 _Jane Seymour is pregnant again, but please do not frown at me and say that she should not have a son. Wait and see what will happen: the drama will be emotional, and the storm is brewing in chapters 26-28. I hope you liked François' gift to Henry – a long girdle of onyxes. Finally, Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, is at court._

 _I promised that Mary Tudor would have an unconventional storyline – you will not meet it in any other AU. That is true: she escaped from England, and perhaps she will never come back, and all her adventures following her escape are rather unusual. In the second part of this epic, we will welcome another interesting character – the unfortunate Juana of Castile. Carlos and Isabella will be back soon; Ferdinand will appear in chapter 28._

 _Guys, let's support each other and make each other smile! Stay safe! By the way,_ _I have a poll about Gregory Cromwell on my profile!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	27. Chapter 26: Lovers' Intrigues

**Chapter 26: Lovers' Intrigues**

 ** _February 20, 1538, Cádiz, Andalusia, southwestern Spain_**

Eustace Chapuys breathed a sigh of relief as the large galleon anchored in the harbor. Situated on a narrow slice of land surrounded by the sea‚ Cádiz was a bustling port for international exploration and trade, boasting more than a hundred watchtowers. It was also the home of the strong Spanish navy, or what was left from it after the Turkish blockades and attacks.

The arduous voyage, which had lasted for nearly ten weeks due to severe weather, was over at last. At first, Lady Mary Tudor and the former Imperial ambassador to England, who had been disguised as a merchant and his daughter, had sailed from Dover to Calais; fortunately for them, they had been undetected by English flagships. In Calais, the Spanish trade galleon called the Savior had taken Mary and Eustace on board, Cádiz being their final destination.

Chapuys crossed himself. "Dear God! Thank you for protecting us at sea!"

The early morning was fresh and brisk, and the pale pink hue of the sunrise colored the blue water. The city had a wealth of fabulous vistas, incongruent with the views of the port that was filled with numerous vessels and cargo. On the Torre Tavira, which was used for spotting ships, Eustace noticed a man in the Duke of Alba's livery. This meant that his last missive to his master, sent during their short stop at Saint-Goustan in Brittany, had not been intercepted.

"All is fine," the diplomat said to himself. "The emperor has been awaiting us."

Having climbed the stairway to the wheel deck, the captain informed the crew about their arrival. As a chorus of Spanish cheers rang out in the hot air, Eustace strode across the deck.

Mary Tudor's cabin was located below the main deck. In the room's gray gloom, Eustace entered and paused near the door; he could dimly make out the bed where she lay asleep.

As if aware of his presence, Mary's eyes flew open. "Who is it?"

Chapuys apprised, "We have already moored in the port."

She blinked. "Have you just returned from His Imperial Majesty?"

"No. But the emperor dispatched his page to the harbor; I talked to him half an hour ago."

"Good. Is one of his trusted men in Cádiz?" Her voice slurred from sleep.

"Yes. I'm sorry, Your Highness. I didn't mean to wake you."

Although he stood at the doorway, Mary covered herself with a wool blanket up to her throat. "It doesn't matter. You rescued me from the most miserable existence with that heretical Duke of Cleves, and I am forever in debt to you, Your Excellency."

"There is no debt, Your Highness. All I did for you was also done for Queen Catherine, who would never have allowed this ungodly union to proceed. I've always cared for you as well."

"My mother," Mary sighed in melancholy accents. "She could use the emperor's troops to attack England. However, she remained loyal to my father until her dying breath."

"King Henry was intent upon ruining your life, my princess. Queen Catherine would have wanted you to be reunited with your Habsburg family for your happiness."

She chuckled. "I'm so excited to see my relatives that I'm surprised I was asleep at all."

"I'll call for your maid to assist Your Highness in getting dressed."

Spinning on his heels, the diplomat bowed and marched from the cabin. A minute later, Agnes – a French girl whom Chapuys had hired in Calais – came to the cabin.

As Agnes aided her mistress to put on her clothes, Mary recalled the events of the past several months. Throughout the journey from Calais to Cádiz, Mary had been comfortably settled in the largest cabin aboard the galleon. Chapuys had sought quarters elsewhere, but in the daytime, he had assumed his duties as her interim guardian. In the hold were their few possessions, as well as the goods, which the vessel's captain intended to sell once the ship reached its destination.

While the Savior had been in the English Channel, the winter storms had been so bad that the captain had ordered stops at two French ports. The ship had been docked at Havre for repairs, so Mary and Chapuys had spent six weeks there. As soon as they had sailed from Havre, a new storm had caught the ship, sweeping unsecured cargo into the raging sea. The Savior had been forced to make another stop at Cherbourg, where they had waited for another two weeks.

During those days, Mary had imagined that she was in gave peril from the Boleyn harlot, who now resided in France. The abiding fear of being recognized had been eating her alive, and Mary had locked herself in her cabin, refusing to eat and praying every waking moment.

As the ship had navigated its way through the Bay of Biscay, the storms had subsided. As the vessel had moved closer to Spain, the weather had improved dramatically, and so had her spirits. During the last days of their journey, Mary had enjoyed promenades on deck with Chapuys. The old Spanish captain, who was unaware of the two travelers' real identities, had entertained them with jokes, showing them the porpoises that gamboled near the vessel in the water.

Mary wondered how King Henry had reacted to her vanishing. Had he sent someone to try and find his daughter? Had he cursed her and signed her death warrant for the escape that was treason in his eyes? Did he know that Carlos V, her cousin, had aided her to leave England? She feared that at any moment, the door might open, and the Tudor monarch would appear.

Agnes arranged Mary's hair in the style reminiscent of the female hairstyles worn at the Valois court. "Madame, you need to rest more after we disembark," she advised in French.

"I myself know what to do," barked Mary in the same language, which she disliked.

"I'm sorry." Agnes continued working on her curls and ringlets.

Mary perused herself in a looking glass. Indeed, she would have to rest a lot before her face regained its youthful charm. Gaunt hollows in her cheeks and lavender circles under her eyes testified to her restlessness, her agitation, and the strain she was constantly under.

As her dressing was finished, Mary stated, "Now go. My father will pay to you." Chapuys, who pretended to be her parent, would send the girl away after their arrival.

"Now I'll be able to feed my family for a year." A happy Agnes exited.

Throughout their voyage, the bastardized princess had not missed female companionship, for she had Eustace as her friend. Yet, the presence of her French servant irritated her, and she hoped that the emperor would allocate to her household some Spanish ladies. Maybe Mary would befriend Empress Isabella, whose gentility, beauty, and grace were celebrated throughout Europe.

Mary hurried from the cabin and found Chapuys on the main deck. For a long time, they stood at the railings of the galleon, staring at the brightening firmament. Finally, she realized that she no longer had to live in stark terror that at any moment she would be captured.

She looked up and pronounced a thanking prayer to the Almighty. "The sky is so bright this morning! My mother is sending so much light into my life from heaven."

Eustace's lips stretched into a smile. "Happiness is no longer out of your reach."

The deck became alive with activity. Eustace and Mary turned towards the harbor where a contingent of knights, each wearing morions, appeared, followed by a sumptuous litter drawn by horses caparisoned in azure velvet. Then came a squadron of a hundred horsemen and halberdiers.

Eustace recognized the cortege. "It is His Grace of Alba, the emperor's friend."

Mary's heart somersaulted in joy. "My cousin has kept his word!"

The captain saluted to his two passengers. "Goodbye, Don and Doña."

The travelers disembarked the ship and waited on the quay. Clad in a dark brown, waist-length jacket, padded and formed of beads on the sleeves, Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, descended from the litter, then he strolled towards Mary and Eustace.

"Your Highness," Alba's voice rang out in front of Mary. "Welcome to Spain."

The man did not sound precisely friendly, but remembering Eustace's reassurances, Mary answered in Spanish, "Thank you, Your Grace. I long to meet with my relatives."

The Duke of Alba was surprised by Mary's poise and her knowledge of his native tongue. Her modest, elegant Spanish gown of butter-yellow damask was one Chapuys had given her for this occasion. Her elaborate hairstyle beneath her Iberian hood proclaimed the French touch.

The duke commented forthrightly, "His Imperial Majesty dislikes everything French."

Mary guessed his train of thought. "I'll gladly wear Spanish fashions."

Eustace emphasized, "Now Princess Mary is home, and we shall protect her. Without my interference, England would have been aligned with German heretics."

Mary was too fatigued to speak about politics. "Shall we go?"

"Yes," said Alba. "We will travel to Seville tomorrow, where His Imperial Majesties are waiting for Your Highness. Your whereabouts will be kept secret for some time."

The three of them climbed into the litter. As the procession began moving, Mary glanced across the expanse of clear, turquoise water, which separated her from England, her mood soaring like a seagull. She was no longer in danger, and her fate was finally in her own hands.

* * *

 ** _March 25, 1538, Leeds Castle, Kent, England_**

"Now _she_ is in his bed!" Queen Jane Seymour paced her bedroom. "Our sister-in-law!"

Today, King Henry had cancelled his meetings to be with his new paramour – Lady Anne Seymour née Stanhope, Countess of Hertford. Smart and beautiful, Edward Seymour's wife was a marvelous flirt, and the ruler had fallen prey to her charms two months earlier. This time, the monarch had not chased after a woman: Anne Seymour had hunted him while twisting the situation into one that was seen in a different light – her resisting Henry before surrendering to him.

Since Christmas, the Tudor monarch had remained at Leeds Castle. Despite the Seymour family's fears, Henry had not summoned Princess Elizabeth from Eltham Palace. Now five months along in her pregnancy, Jane had been confined to her rooms for months in order to avoid miscarriage. Lady Dorothy Smith was the queen's constant companion; Lady Elizabeth Cromwell had retired to her husband's estates because she expected the birth of her child in May.

Jane complained, "His Majesty cannot see straight – he is infatuated."

Dorothy sat in a chair by a window. "Are you not indifferent to their affair, sister?"

For a short time, the queen halted. "I would be if his harlot were not my sister-in-law." Her pacing resumed, and she clutched her chest as tears began spilling over her cheeks.

"Think about the baby. Do not distress yourself."

"I'm fine." Jane dismissed her concerns. She pulled her rings off her fingers, tossing them on the floor. "I don't wish to wear anything the king has gifted me! I cannot even bear his touch after he forced himself on me. But his relationship with that Stanhope harpy is a different matter: she is my relative who serves only Edward's interests. Edward commanded his wife to entice my husband because he strives to stay afloat lest the king discards me."

"How do you know that?" Her sister was surprised by Jane's astuteness.

At last, the queen settled herself into a chair beside Dorothy. "I am not as well educated as our brothers are, but I'm not foolish. It is clear why our sister-in-law pursued the king."

Dorothy dipped her head. "You are right, Janie. But you must think of yourself."

"My dearest baby!" Her tension gone, Jane caressed her baby bump.

Humming to her unborn child, the queen smiled festively for the first time today. In her modest gown of raspberry satin, trimmed with black lace and white pearls, with her head bowed and her hand on her enlarged stomach, a relaxed Jane looked like a happy matron who was taking care of her new baby. However, beneath the surface, her emotions were a boiling cauldron.

As she envisaged the monarch parading his new mistress in front of the whole court, her mood swiveled. _The king will not violate Anne Stanhope, or will he?_ Sensibly, Jane had long accepted his infidelities for the unimportant affairs they were to him, and she was relieved that Henry no longer bedded her due to her condition. Nevertheless, she could not bear the thought that the members of her own family were betraying her in such a vile way.

Dorothy contrived a speech that could lessen the queen's misery. "At least, now His Majesty does not hold that Bassett whore in highest regard, and she is often seen as gloomy as you. She accompanies him on official audiences, but he spends nights with Edward's wife."

"I don't care about Anne Bassett. I'm hurting that Edward is betraying me so."

"He looks out for himself. Don't expect him to try to ease his conscience, Jane. He and his wife care only about things that touch them materially or can give them more privileges."

After a pause, Jane speculated, "Maybe the king's infatuation with Anne Stanhope is not that bad. At least, he no longer frets that Mary betrayed him by fleeing somewhere."

"Indeed. This romance has diverted his attention from Lady Mary's situation."

The two women recalled the feast of St Stephen. On that morning, King Henry had been apprised of his eldest daughter's absence. In a nasty temper, the ruler had gone on a rampage and destroyed most of the interior in his quarters. Chapuys' disappearance confirmed that he had aided Mary, so the monarch had dispatched an envoy to the emperor. Charles Brandon and his family had been sent away from court, for they were suspected as Mary's accomplices. Mary Tudor had been declared a traitor, and Henry had confiscated all her estates and possessions.

Jane opined, "I believe that Mary is in Spain."

"Of course, she could not marry a heretic."

A knock at the door cut off their discourse. "Enter," the queen called.

The door flung open, and two women walked in. They were Lady Jane Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford, and Lady Elizabeth Holland. They lowered themselves into curtsies.

"Rise," the queen permitted. "Let me have a better look at you both."

Appareled in a gown of asparagus satin, Elizabeth looked downhearted, as if she were close to a breakdown. The simplicity of her outfit and the lack of jewelry astounded the Seymour sisters. The court overflowed with rumors that the Duke of Norfolk had dismissed his mistress. Despite everything, Bess was radiantly attractive, in the very noontide of her resplendent youth.

Lady Jane Boleyn was appareled in a gown of gray damask without any ornamentation, and its high collar was pinned with a silver brooch. Her garments were old-fashioned and countrified, for she lacked funds even for necessities after her husband George's execution.

Queen Jane commenced, "I was told that you want to be my maid, Lady Holland."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Bess Holland responded. "The Duke of Norfolk… left me…"

"What has happened?" Jane was abashed by the news.

Elizabeth's expression was a picture of torment. "Your Majesty, to answer your question, I'll have to forget the niceties. His Grace of Norfolk no longer fancies me, and so he cut off my allowance. He also beat me harshly, just as he did to his wife, Lady Elizabeth Stafford."

"Oh my goodness!" chorused the Seymour sisters. Everyone was well aware of Norfolk's estrangement from his spouse and the incident between them prior to their separation.

"My bruises have not healed yet." These two ladies were too proper to ask Bess to show the traces of her rough handling at the hands of Norfolk.

"But the duke is the first peer of the English realm," Jane grumbled contemptuously.

Dorothy shook her head. "Plenty of men abuse their wives and paramours."

The queen nodded sadly. "You are of course right, sister." Her gaze flew to Bess. "Lady Holland, you are safe in my household. I appoint you my lady-in-waiting."

"I'm most grateful, Madame," Bess pronounced in a honeyed voice that was not too sweet to appear servile. "I shall serve you loyally and with great pleasure."

Jane added, "If you need a doctor, call Butts."

"Thank you!" Bess exuded faux gratitude. "Bless you, our benevolent lady!"

Jane Boleyn spoke up. "I thought that she can serve Your Majesty."

"That is right, Lady Rochford." Jane then addressed Bess, "You can, Mistress Holland. You will be lodged in one of the rooms occupied by my ladies. Later we will talk."

Bess curtsied so deeply that she could lose her balance. "May God bless you and your baby! Your Majesty is an embodiment of purity and kindness." Then she left.

"Poor Lady Holland," Jane Boleyn said. Deep down, she felt that it was all a spectacle.

Jane growled, "Norfolk is a horrible man." The king was not a better creature.

"She will be safe here," Dorothy added.

At the same time, Elizabeth Holland walked to her new rooms. Norfolk and she had gone to a great deal of trouble to invent this little charade. Her lover had paid to his spies handsomely to spread gossip about their 'violent quarrel'. In fact, the duke's assignment had brought them closer than before, providing Bess with enough licentious daydreaming until their next rendezvous that now had to be clandestine. _Let's hope our efforts bear fruit,_ Bess mused.

§§§

Lady Anne Bassett placed her full platter back on the table. She ended the pretense that she enjoyed the dinner and scolded the servants, but of course, the tastefully cooked meal was not the real reason for her foul mood. The king's affair with Lady Hertford abhorred her.

Lady Honor Grenville, Viscountess Lisle, said, "I like Leeds Castle."

In her late forties, Honor was radiant with health and fresh. Her fashionable gown was of blue silk worked with gold thread, and a gold necklace set with blueish moonstones glittered on her bosom. Wrinkles largely evaded Honor so far, except for a few creases around her eyes. Her hair had lost its copper hue and had turned golden, but not grizzled. Her eyes, an unfathomable blue-green, had a coolly calculating glint; her bearing was cold, restrained, and dignified.

The Basset family dined in a splendidly decorated room with walls hung with tapestries of picturesque panoramas of Leeds and the English coast. The Bassett and the Lisle coat of arms hung over the white marble hearth. The rosewood chairs boasted a detailed carving of entwined acanthus leaves; the tables with candelabra were all of black marble. Thanks to Anne's status of a royal mistress, their apartments were more luxurious than those occupied by others.

Chewing at a morsel of venison, Honor was absorbed in thoughts. Like her daughter Anne, she was displeased with the current situation while also displaying more sangfroid. Her other daughters, Katherine and Philippa, didn't interact either, despite their itching desire to chatter.

Honor inquired, "Anne, don't you find the meal to your liking?"

"What is the matter, sister?" Katherine joined the conversation.

Anne scrutinized the table where they all sat. "How is His Majesty not excessively corpulent yet? He eats great quantities of food and drinks copious amounts of ale and wine."

Her sisters burst out giggling at her sarcasm. Anne herself smirked.

"Enough!" Honor roared. "Jesting will not help us. And we can be overheard."

"But mama," Philippa interposed. "It is funny!"

Katherine opined, "His Majesty might grow ill if he continues eating so much."

"Silence!" Honor bellowed. She enjoined the servants, "More wine, and don't dawdle."

The footman rushed into the room to do his mistress' bidding, and another course was brought. It consisted of oysters, crabs, and periwinkles, as well as hazelnuts, raisins, plums, and cherries. For the rest of the dinner, they ate leisurely, going from one topic to another, but never touching upon royalty. Then Honor dismissed Katherine, Philippa, and the servants.

Anne stared into space. "I wonder what my father would have thought of me."

Honor's memories briefly toured to her youth. Her first husband had been Sir John Basset of Umberleigh in the parish of Atherington. In spite of him having been about thirty years older, they had had a good marriage and many children. After his death in 1528, Honor had mourned for him until she had become the wife of Sir Arthur Plantagenet, Viscount Lisle, in 1529.

At present, Honor's three daughters and her two sons were present at court. Her eldest son, John Bassett, had entered Lincolns Inn to train in the law and still studied there. Her two other sons, George and James, both served in the household of his stepfather – the Viscount Lisle.

Honor asserted, "He would have wanted you to become Queen of England."

Anne's brow arched. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, and I must tell you something else." Slyly, Honor leaned across the table to her daughter. "If a man is too lustful, you cannot change his nature. If you catch him red-handed, you should not confront him then and there, like Anne Boleyn did in front of the court. Instead, you must make your presence strong in his life and spend as much time with him as possible."

Anne blurted out, "The king is with that Hertford trollop."

Her mother purred, "I wish you to be especially pleasant to the King of England by giving him something that no wife has succeeded so far in doing for him."

A fissure of alarm slid down Anne's spine. "What, lady mother?"

As her daughter did not understand, Honor began her explanatory maneuver anew. "If a man does not visit your bed, it is cold only until you find _a replacement_. Better _his relative_."

The royal mistress blinked. "How do you know about…" Her voice failed her.

"Lord Exeter was a brilliant lover, wasn't he? I'm not angry with you for that liaison."

"I…. I…" Incredulity whitened Anne's visage.

"It means," her mother's voice took on a silky quality that unnerved her daughter more, "you need to be with him again so as to grant His Majesty _something absolutely precious_ and by doing so, make the king worship you. Your stepfather and I have long debated over the subject of your future queenship, and we agree that you must take Lord Exeter as your lover again."

"Lord Lisle is aware of your schemes, my lady mother?"

"Naturally." Honor poured wine for herself and sipped from the goblet. "Arthur and I want you to succeed where each of His Majesty's wives failed. The Tudor seed is _weak or cursed_ ; alternatively, the king might be _infected with some disease_. The childbearing histories of his three spouses prove that. Our family longs to have you and your child on the throne of England."

"Your plot might be derailed as Queen Jane is pregnant now."

"It means nothing," Honor parried. "Queen Catherine and Queen Anne were with child. Where are their Tudor princes? The king could not sire them! The simplest of solutions occurred to Arthur, I must confess, and we expect you to do your part, Anne. Exeter is at court now."

Despite being shaken by her stepfather and her mother's order, Lady Bassett could not deny that she wanted the crown. There was a kernel of truth to what Honor had said about the ruler's procreative ability. Yet, Anne was in a haze of ambivalence until twilight descended.

§§§

The candles, placed upon bedtables, threw shadows on the tapestried walls, which were writhing upward like flames. As Edward Seymour shrugged out of his doublet and tossed it onto a nearby couch, Anne Bassett stepped into his embrace. They were sprawled on the bed, whose canopy was worked in misty blues, like those one could see on the canvas of a morning sky.

"Make me yours, Edward," Anne demanded.

"Mine," her lover's guttural voice resonated. His hands unlacing his hose, he covered her body with his, while her hands worked on the fastenings of his shirt.

The lovers wrapped each other in the heat of their limbs. Edward kissed her with a fierce passion he could barely control. Their clothes were stripped off her and tossed on the floor. Their actions were governed by physical instincts, their moans echoing in their ears. Edward and Anne were too aroused, so their lovemaking could not last long, and they quickly reached the pinnacle.

Edward pulled away from her. "You ought to dress, Anne."

She looked at him as though he had been a lunatic. "We have just started!"

He grimaced. "It is already over."

"Why?" Anne stretched her body against the mattress that still kept his warmth.

"I must go." He climbed out of bed and put on his shirt.

"Why?" She rose from the bed and reached for him, but froze.

Edward eyed her nakedness without a trace of lust. "This is our last rendezvous."

Anne raised her eyebrows a bit, but that was as close to censure as she came. "You must be joking, my Lord Hertford. Did you get off on the wrong foot this morning?"

"Get dressed." He shrugged into his doublet, fastening the tiny pearl closures.

She donned her nightgown of red silk. "I don't understand."

He stepped into his hose and pulled them to his waist. "We will no longer be lovers." He spoke so casually, as though they were discussing weather or other trivial things.

Lady Bassett turned her head away and stared at herself in a looking glass on a nearby mahogany table. The young woman who looked back at her appeared no different than she had been an hour earlier. Yet, there was something that she could not quite describe; she stepped closer to the glass and strained her eyesight to fathom the conundrum of her transformation.

"What are you doing?" He climbed into his boots and put on his toque.

"I can discern the change in myself." She stilled for a fraction of a second, then uttered in a melancholic voice that could pierce anyone's soul but her lover's. "Now I know what to do."

"Explain, Madame," a baffled Edward demanded.

This time, the royal paramour swung around to face him. "I'm glad that our liaison has ended. You worship only power and wealth. You are so cold and unfeeling!"

Edward darted to her and grasped her wrist. "Don't judge me!"

She tugged her hand away. "I don't want to see you again."

He warned harshly, "You will never speak to anyone about our amours."

Her eyes brimming with abject loathing, Anne Bassett hissed, "I swear that I shall never forgive you, Edward. And when your sister is discarded by the king for her inability to bear his son, I shall celebrate the downfall of your family from the Tudor good graces."

He shook her like a rag doll. "I might destroy you with ease, you whore!"

Edward shook his _former_ mistress once more. Shocked, Anne moved in his hands like something lifeless – like a tablecloth having the crumbs jounced from it. As their gazes intersected, she discerned in him a ruthlessness that inspired fear and respect to him from others.

Nevertheless, intrepidity was etched into Anne's features. "You will never subjugate me, you buffoon! You will never harm me or any member of my family! Don't you ever try!"

His snickering hurt her. "You are nothing, Anne!" He released her and laughed again. "You are aware that my wife is now the king's mistress as well. You are a cheap royal harlot, one of the many women who warm His Majesty's bed only to be set aside later. You–"

She cut him off with, "What a cowardly and unmanly man you are, Edward, if you forced your own spouse to lure Henry into her bed so that you can control the king's will."

Anger flashed through him. "Don't pry into my affairs."

An acrid grin curled her mouth. "Leave me alone, Edward. Don't take a move against me or my family. Or I'll shout now that you have forced yourself upon me." She gestured towards the bed with rumpled sheets. "Everything in this room shows that the lovers coupled here a mere minutes ago, but nothing says that it happened with my consent – there are no witnesses."

"Oh, my dear." He let out a smile. "I like a rebellious side to you. You are an amazing and brave creature, but today you have made an enemy out of me. Be careful henceforth."

Without a backward glance, Edward Seymour quitted the chamber.

Anne slid to the floor and wept. Once she had thought that love in freedom – without bonds of marriage to some nobleman who would not rule her life like a husband always did – was a condition for her contentment. Edward's cruelty had made her pay for her naivete with anguish.

Honor's recommendations resounded in her daughter's head like an echo taunting her with promises about her glory. "His Majesty will marry me, just as my mother said."

Once her mind had repudiated marriage as a shallow mockery of happiness. Nonetheless, she had known that, one day her mother would find a suitor for her, and Anne would have to wed him. Despite her scornful attitude towards the idea of a woman's inferior status, she would have done that for her family's advancement at court. Nevertheless, now Anne resolved that she would enter into matrimony not with some noble, but with the King of England himself.

For the first time, Lady Bassett wished ill on Jane's unborn child. "If only that pale and undereducated bitch miscarried," she grumbled while changing into a gown the color of first spring flowers on earth. "Then His Majesty would have needed another wife to give him a son."

Her mind journeyed to her affair with the Marquess of Exeter. She had allowed him to take her maidenhood out of mere curiosity, and because Exeter had awakened desire in her. They had usually met during the gathering dusk in secret at court, and Exeter had taught her the art of physical love, making her knowledgeable of her own carnal instincts and of how to provide a man with the most gratifying pleasure. At present, Anne needed her first lover again.

§§§

Supper was an extended affair because King Henry ate a great deal of food, as always. Lady Anne Bassett sat in the middle of the women who surrounded him, including Queen Jane and Lady Anne Seymour, the monarch's new mistress. Henry spoke with his paramours from time to time, grinning lewdly at them, but he rarely glanced at his consort, as if Jane had not existed.

Anne Bassett observed the ruler lean close to Anne Seymour. "Lady Hertford, you are very attractive tonight," Henry murmured in adoration. "You are such a rare flower."

Lady Hertford laughed gaily. "I treasure Your Majesty's compliments."

The ruler drew her hand to his mouth. "Your husband does not object, does he?"

"Edward is a dutiful subject," the new royal paramour avouched.

Henry expelled a loud belch. "You will serve my pleasure tonight."

As the king kissed her fingers, Anne Bassett averted her scrutiny to conceal her repugnance. She listened to the inane prattle of courtiers flowing around her. Did they have nothing better to do than gossip about their sovereign's amours? For the first time, Lady Bassett wondered about the idle lives of these pampered aristocrats, and her train of thought went to Anne Boleyn's plans to use the proceeds from the Dissolution of monasteries for charity and education.

The Bassett family were religiously conservative reformists. Once Anne had managed to read accounts by William Latymer, a former chaplain of Anne Boleyn's, which portrayed her as a national heroine of the English reform. _I agree with Queen Anne that the Catholic Church is too corrupt. If only I could influence the reform…_ Lady Bassett wished to become the next Queen of England with more fervency, but it all depended upon the birth of the queen's baby.

Her gaze rested on Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter. "Hal…"

Exeter was handsome with a straight nose, lush lips, pale blue eyes, and a countenance full of intellect and calculation. Her former lover lounged at a nearby table and, if his expression were an indication, he felt as bored as she did. His habiliments were of yellow and blue – with his arms displayed on a jeweled chain. His azure velvet doublet was embroidered with a blue dragon and glittered with diamonds. His plumed cap of yellow brocade was ornamented with sapphires.

The Marquess of Exeter was the only son of Catherine of York, the sixth daughter of King Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville. Almost a prince of the blood, he moved, ate, and talked with all his regal bearing. His girdle was narrower than the monarch's. _Courtenay is an ideal candidate for my purpose. His body is far more pleasant to touch than the king's,_ Anne remarked to herself. Exeter's pale blondness and his slender build projected a gentleness irresistible to women.

Hal Courtenay approached the main table. Bowing gallantly, he greeted cordially, "Your Majesty! It is an enormous pleasure for me to see you so happy tonight."

The ruler stopped eating. "Hal, I'm delighted to finally have you by my side!"

Exeter's smile did not reach his eyes. "I've missed your splendid court."

Henry howled with laughter. "Hal, what can a man like you do for long in the countryside? You are merry, sociable, and devoted to the old way of life we both don't want to lose."

Lady Bassett and Lady Hertford nearly rolled their eyes. Jane looked embarrassed.

Exeter uttered, "Two of my stewards managed my affairs badly, so I had much work to do."

The monarch lauded, "You have always been a superb administrator. You have governed the west of England in my name for years, and I've never had any complaints."

"It is my most important duty to serve England and Your Majesty."

Henry regarded him in the same affectionate way he looked only at Suffolk. "Hal, you are my best friend, just as Charles is. Don't leave me for long, for you are irreplaceable."

Exeter smiled at his liege lord's praises. "I am exhilarated that I'm needed here. Being apart from Your Majesty is never easy for me, for I'd like to spend my whole life at your side."

The monarch pressed a hand to his chest. "You and Charles both have a special place in my heart." Then his countenance twisted into a livid frown. "Unfortunately, Charles betrayed me by helping my treacherous daughter escape. Don't do anything like that, Hal."

Exeter distinguished a threat in his sovereign's appeal. "Your Majesty, I shall gladly give my life for you – I'll remain loyal to you until my dying day." As he was worried about his friend, the Duke of Suffolk, he added cautiously, "If Charles was temporarily misguided or blinded by emotion, I am certain that he will see the errors of his ways and prove his fealty to you."

Henry continued, "I can forgive only two subjects for many missteps and mistakes – you, Hal, and Charles." His eyes narrowed. "But there are limits for everything."

"I know them," assured Exeter nonchalantly.

Anne Bassett was surprised with Exeter's self-control. He always kept his cool and never showed fear or doubt. "Do you, Lord Exeter? How can His Majesty be sure?"

The marquess veered his blank gaze to her. "These are not things for such young ladies."

Henry burst out laughing. "Oh, Hal! How perfect it is to have you back!"

Before Exeter could leave, Anne sent him an irritated look, but he did not react.

As the music signaled the dancing, Anne Bassett sprang from her chair in relief. The king remained at the table, chatting with the Countess of Hertford intimately; a sullen Queen Jane sat watching her husband's frivolities with her brother's wife. Anne did not pity Jane, sniggering at her rival silently. Her thoughts again went to Exeter, who came promptly to claim her on the dance floor, and as their eyes met again, her pulse leapt at the longing in his orbs.

As the pavane ended, Lady Bassett murmured, "I haven't seen you for ages, my dear lord. Let's meet in a more private locale." She told him where she would await him.

"I've missed you, Anne," Exeter whispered. He then led her to Lady Honor Grenville.

For the rest of the banquet, the Marquess of Exeter waited on the sidelines and sometimes observed the monarch's mistress dance. He feared to rouse suspicion or do something that could hint at his previous clandestine amours with Lady Bassett. He also danced with his wife, Lady Gertrude Courtenay née Blount, who was a plain-looking creature despite being clad in a pretty gown of white and black brocade, her stomacher of green silk adorned with precious stones.

After the festivities, Courtenay escorted his spouse to their quarters and left. The woman was aware that he had extramarital liaisons and bastards, so she swallowed her jealousy.

§§§

The Marquess of Exeter darted through the inner bailey and soon reached the place that his paramour had mentioned. In his eagerness to be with her again, his face transformed into a thing of beauty, his dreams of luminous happiness, even if it was to be short-lived, resurfacing.

The night was exquisite in its loveliness – the best time for two lovebirds to be together. This year spring had come early to England, and the mild climate of Kent had made the foliage blossom early as well. The walled garden was filled with the fragrance of honeysuckles and the song of a wakeful robin in one of the trees alongside the vibrant flowerbeds and the young grasses. The tops of the trees, silvered by a moon, waved in the breeze that was fresh but not chilly.

Anne Bassett emerged from behind a tall oak like the phantom of a goddess of night, a thundercloud darkening her brow. "You have made me wait for too long, Hal."

"I had to be careful so that no one saw me," Exeter explained. "During the whole evening, I was cautious not to betray my feelings, so I did not dare watch you in open fascination."

"Did you make love to that cow of a wife before going to me?"

His smile faded. "You know that I do not love Gertrude."

"Of course, my lord. Otherwise, you would not have come here."

"Touché!" An affable grin flourished upon his lips. "No man can forget you. All your other lovers – I'll wager you had many after me – should bow in deference to your beauty, audacity, allure, and astuteness, for it is a rare combination for a woman, I must admit."

In the spill of moonlight, her eyes flashed with ire. "We women cannot decide our own fates. Marriage is considered a woman's main vocation. We are expected to take care of the manor and the children, whom all men wish to have in abundance. Our life is a marginal existence, and even at royal courts, ladies are only ornaments, but their opinions matter nothing. Very rarely, a lady can be seen or heard expressing herself, and Anne Boleyn is one of such heroines."

Rushing over to Anne, Exeter knelt in front of her and clasped her hand in his. "My most beloved Anne, you are the mistress of my heart. If I only could divorce Gertrude…"

Anne eyed him condescendingly. "But you cannot because you are a damned Catholic who does not see that the Catholic prelates live in riches while the folk die of famine."

He kissed her hand. "Our religions are different, which cannot be changed." He sighed. "Did you ever love me, Anne? You abandoned me so quickly after you had caught the king's eye. Then I escaped to my estates so that I could not see you with His Majesty."

"You became a member of the royal inner circle years ago. Everyone knows that Henry and his close friends adore hunting parties in the countryside, where they taste sin of the flesh in the most wicked ways one can imagine." The disapproval sharpened her voice.

Exeter climbed to his feet. "But you are his paramour!"

Anne flung back, "You have no right to rebuke me for my affair, for you have never lived in celibacy. Your wife must have birthed you only one son because you whore yourself around so much that you have no strength left to bed her and sire another child on her."

Her words slapped him in the face. "That was callous, Anne."

"You are jealous of me, Hal. Is that why you are cold to your royal cousin?"

Exeter toyed with his rings. "Exactly. Stop tormenting me," he said with asperity.

Anne removed her gem-studded headdress that confined her tresses. She twirled in the breeze, her glossy blonde hair flying around her like a cape of white silk. "Now I feel free and light! It does not happen when I am with His Majesty! He is such a selfish and mercurial man!"

The wind echoed her words, which gradually softened to stillness.

"Quiet, my darling. The wind might carry your speech far and wide."

Her eyes began to sting. "I don't care."

Exeter pulled Anne into his arms. "I've dreamed of you days and nights."

"I remembered you, too." She shuddered like a leaf in a storm, clinging to him.

Her attraction for Exeter was burning in her breast like a funereal torch that could not guide her to light. Anne's transformation had indeed happened today: it was not so much a visual thing as emanation from within – she had become far fiercer and more desperate. To tie King Henry to herself, she needed a son – a York prince fathered by Exeter. A thought blazed through Anne's head: _Hal Courtenay must impregnate me. King Henry will think that it is his child._

"I wrote you a sonnet." Exeter yearned to caress her breasts.

Anne licked her lips. "Your poetry was beautiful. I regret that I had to burn it."

"I can write more verses for you," he whispered into her hair.

She laughed. "Hal, kiss me and–"

His lips devastated hers before she could finish the sentence. Exeter's arms enveloped her like a shield of armor, protecting her from everything pernicious. The intensity of his sensual onslaught prompted her to forget her heartbreak and even her plans for queenship, for it was the kiss that left her boneless, breathless, and weightless at once. It was both tender and passionate, communicating the ardent sentiments Courtenay had for her in the most primal way.

Anne's blood roared. "Claim me. Now and here."

Raising her skirts, Exeter placed one hand between her thighs, while Anne undid his hose. After falling onto the carpet of daffodils, roses, narcissi, and anemones, they rolled over and over as he pumped into her with reckless abandon. For an hour, they made love in the garden, their bodies pierced by rose thorns. For Exeter, it was an act of love with the woman whom he dreamed of marrying, while Anne Bassett also felt something for him – deep and yet uncertain.

The desperation had driven them to forgo the inconvenience of their natural bed as they had pounced upon each other in the grip of abounding passion. Later, Exeter had rolled over the ground with Anne so that they lay on the smooth grass under a lime tree. With his one hand wrapped around her middle, he pulled her tightly against him, and rested his chin on her shoulder.

The full moon shone above, casting its pale glow across the garden. A vast shimmering entity that presided over all manner of life down below. An alley of woven trees lay to the right from them, with patterns in their weaving that the lovers committed to memory as a memento of their reunion. In the stillness of the garden, they talked in gentle intermittent murmurs.

Anne touched Exeter's face. "The full moon is always an interesting time. My mother says that it is typically associated with heightened emotions and friction."

His fingers combed through her hair. "That must be true. I've experienced the most intense emotions because I am with you, Anne. After nights of despair, now I feel complete."

Abashed, she took Exeter's face in her hands, her eyes searching hers. "How is that possible, Hal? You have always had many mistresses! Don't they satisfy you?"

The marquess gazed into her eyes affectionately. "They are not you."

She was silent for a long moment. In the moonlight, his handsome countenance was cast in silver and black, making him appear more a figment of her imagination than man. Yet, she felt his hands upon her skin, her hands cupping his face – they were breathing, their bodies warm.

Anne kissed him ardently. "How could a womanizer like you fall for me?"

The Marquess of Exeter said in the most emphatic accents, "Even a lustful man finds his true love sooner or later. I am hopelessly wrapped in the chains of my own heart, my dear. You broke our relationship, causing me great sufferings, but I'll not let you do so again. Now I can only turn away from you if you were to say that you could not bear the sight of me."

"No!" She drew a swift breath and patted him on the cheek. "I wish to be with you."

He leaned over, kissing the back of her neck. "I want to love you again."

"I'd like the consequences." At this moment, Anne did want to feel life growing within her, and she wanted the baby to be fathered not by the king, but by this man.

He arched a brow. "You used to take some herbs to prevent conception."

"Indeed." Anne had consumed them every day in order not to get pregnant with the king or Edward Seymour, but now she had other aims. "I did not drink anything before coming here."

Exeter was silent for a long time, nibbling at his upper lip. There was a strange and wondrous expression upon his face. It was usually impenetrable in front of the Tudor court, merry and good-humored with his friends, including King Henry, coldly indifferent when he faced his enemies or was up to a challenge, or almost disgusted whenever his gaze fell upon his spouse. Then his eyes sparkled with an inner fire – a pale blue flame of gladness rarely seen in them.

"Why?" Suspicion tinged his voice. "To have a bastard?"

"I want your baby, Hal." It was what a man in love craved to hear, and it was also true.

"I can read your mind, Anne." Exeter's voice turned chilly and clipped, his piercing gaze deadly. "Did your presumptuous mother command that you conceive my child and then tell the king that it is his? If Jane Seymour does not give him a son, he will set her aside and marry you."

Candor slipped out of her mouth. "And why not? The Tudor dynasty will end otherwise, and England will plunge into civil wars. Moreover, didn't the Tudors depose the House of York?" She pointed a finger at his chest. "Don't you want to have a York on the throne again?"

"Yes," was all the marquess said, then he was on her.

He kissed her face, mouth, and neck, pulled back that glorious blonde hair, placed his lips at her ear and told her that he worshipped her. Exeter was infinitely gentle until he entered her with an urgency they both required, and then they were savage in their needs, in taking and giving. They tried to stifle their moans as Exeter was thrusting into her faster. Anne grabbed his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his clothed back as he drove into her with feral intensity.

Anne had forgotten how good being with a man could be. Neither the Earl of Hertford nor the King of England made her feel so wonderful. In the moonlight, Exeter's face contorted in lust looked like that of a mythological faun. To her, their coupling was so right, and it filled her with completeness, as if she were giving him not only her body, but also her heart. It was all strange because Anne had never felt so before during her previous affair with the marquess.

"I love you," Courtenay whispered into her lips. "More than I imagined I could."

As he increased the rhythm, Anne peered up at the moon. "It is as bright as a beacon."

"That led you to me again." His lips meandered down her throat.

The roar of their blood in their ears and the thundering pounding of their hearts echoed within them like a symphony of something forbidden. He released his seed into her, and a spasm closed around him and shook his entire being, his hands firmly holding his paramour in place. _I must get pregnant_ , Anne Bassett cried in her mind as she groaned in pleasure, arching her back.

Afterwards, they lay clothed on the ground, her skirts bunched up around her waist. At the sight of an elated Henry Courtney, Lady Bassett did not want to ever part with him, and a pang of loneliness speared her. Honor's suggestion to make him the father of her child was a genius one! The marquess was the monarch's maternal cousin, so Anne's baby could resemble Edward IV or his relatives, which would make it easy to pass the infant off as King Henry's prince.

Exeter laced his hose. "When will we meet again?"

Anne rearranged her skirts. "Very soon, Hal."

He drew her close and kissed her until her lips were clinging under his. "Our intercourses must happen as often as possible so that you can conceive. Tomorrow in the dead of night."

"Yes!" Her lips were tingling from the kiss.

"I know a place in the castle where no one will find us." He then outlined his plan.

Anne Bassett broached a serious issue. "Hal, do you understand that if I get pregnant and my plans come to fruition, we will need to end our liaison _permanently_?"

Naught could eliminate the feel of a lance through his bosom that had penetrated it because of her words, which, he knew, were correct. "I don't want to think about it now."

They hastened back to the castle lest someone found them in the garden. They parted their ways before each of them entered the grand park separately and then crossed it to the inner bailey. They returned to the palace undetected, and the night hid their sin with its opaque raiment.

* * *

 _I hope you are all safe from Covid-19. I'm still staying in lockdown in Tuscany. Be well!_

 _Thank you for reading this chapter! Let me know what you think. As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 at . I recommend that you check the stories "Court of Thorns and Roses" and "Hourglass" by WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction._

 _Now Mary Tudor is in Spain and will soon meet with Emperor Carlos and Empress Isabella. She will find herself in the center of the Habsburg intrigues and wars, although so far, she has no clue as to her own future. I cannot say anything else about Mary's fate now._

 _What do you think about Anne Bassett now? I adore her for the same reasons the Marquess of Exeter is in love with her. The Bassett family were the old English nobles; Lady Honor Grenville is power-hungry, cunning, and unscrupulous. Now the ambitious Anne is determined to become Queen of England, but as Honor tells her, it is unlikely that she can have a healthy son with King Henry. So, Anne renews her affair with Exeter, her first lover, who approves of her audacious plan._

 _Not a lot is known about Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter. He was a York cousin of King Henry VIII, and for decades, he was the king's close friend and favorite. I do not believe that he was guilty of the Exeter Conspiracy of 1539, but even if he was, in this AU he has a different role and fate – he will be around for many years. In history, Exeter was born in 1490/1, but I need him to be younger for fictional purposes: here Exeter's year of birth is 1498, so he is François' coeval._

 _My Exeter is a contradictory character. He is a brilliant administrator, just as he was in history. He is a cunning, cruel, intelligent politician who weaves deadly intrigues, like a patient spider. He is a womanizer, just as he was in history. At the same time, Exeter has conscience and limits, and he is capable of deep feelings. Exeter really does love Anne Bassett, and it is clear from their scenes that she does feel something for him too. Exeter has an unconventional storyline!_

 _Honor Grenville had three daughters: Philippa Bassett (born 1516), Katherine Bassett (born 1517), and Anne Bassett (born 1520/1). In this story, I've changed their ages: I need Anne to be Honor's eldest daughter. Now the list of the Bassett girls looks: Anne (1516), Katherine (1517), and Philippa (1520/1)._

 _The drama is starting, and the serious storm is brewing – wait for chapter 28. Jane's situation became more complicated because Edward Seymour and his wife, Anne Stanhope, want to stay afloat lest Jane is discarded, so Edward and his wife put into motion their own plan._

 _Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other! I am continuing to review other authors, although it will take more time as I don't read quickly._

 _I have another poll about Mary Tudor's husband/husbands! Thanks in advance!_

 _Yours sincerely,_  
 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	28. Chapter 27: Infected with Antagonism

**Chapter 27: Infected with Antagonism**

 ** _April 3, 1538, Château de Rambures,_ _near Amiens, Picardy, France_**

"Queen Anne ruling France in the king's absence?" Anne de Montmorency inquired with a gasp. "Madame Stafford, you must be mad. Only His Majesty's sister may be his regent."

"I have all my wits about me," Mary contradicted. "I'm quite insulted by your rudeness, Monsieur de Montmorency. You lack proper manners and are too full of yourself."

He smirked. "Really? Your family tried to dig their claws into the Tudor throne, but they failed. Now you think that the Valois throne is in your hands."

For a moment, silence stretched between the Valois queen's sister and the Constable of France. They stood on the meadow that was surrounded by a forest from one side and bordered with a cobble-covered road, snaking its way from Paris to Amiens. They had stopped here to water the horses from a stream and then left them to graze in lush grass, while all the travelers rested. The guards remained at a respectful distance from their master and Mary Stafford.

Spring was in full bloom, and the warm evening was serene. The meadow was dotted with flowering shrubs, evergreen plants, and pools of water where sparrows stopped to drink. The scent of the nearby forest was invigorating, temping them to stay there for longer. At sunset, only the smallest trace of chill was felt in the air, daffodils and other flowers ruffling in the breeze.

As part of the French troops was stationed in Savoy since 1536, the monarch intended to launch a new campaign in Italy. François would appoint regent to rule France in his wake.

At last, Mary snapped, "I do not want to talk to you. I wish I had traveled with anyone else, just not with you. Why did King François ask you to accompany me?"

"His Majesty wants to keep his wife's sister safe. Once you and your children were captured by Imperial agents. His Grace of Ferrara saved you. Nothing like that should happen again."

Unbeknownst to her, Montmorency took delight in observing Mary. Her cherry-colored satin gown, decorated with diamonds, matched her flat crimson velvet cap surmounted by a gold tassel, as well as the flushing color of her cheeks. As she reached down and brushed a stray blade of grass from the folds of her skirts, a melody of adoration sounded in his chest. Nonetheless, he dismissed it with a tug at his heart, and his mind floated back to their conversation.

"The war is over, and I'm safe in France," she persevered.

"Madame," he said in such a stringent voice that she glowered back at him. "Our liege lord – now the King of France is your sovereign as well – decides what we do, and we must comply with his commands. Indeed, I'm a soldier who is and shall be loyal to my country with my dying breath. As a politician, I know for a certainty that _a Protestant queen_ can never be our regent."

Offended, Mary countered, "King François permits Queen Marguerite to represent his will when he is in France and away. They govern together! He has always relied upon the wise counsel of his late mother and his sister. Queen Anne has a brilliant mind!"

Montmorency explained at length, "Madame, I'm not diminishing Her Majesty's talents. But everyone knows that she worships what we Catholics consider heresy. Even though His Majesty permitted her to do so in private, no Lutheran or Calvinist queen can ever be allowed to lead the country, for this would have angered the nobility, destabilizing the whole realm."

Mary could not object to these arguments, but she would not acknowledge the truth of his words. Thus, she closed the topic. "The afternoon sun is waning. We must go."

"Rambures is not far from Amiens, to which we are close. Let me help you into the litter."

She shook her head in protest, feeling her unbound curls tickle her cheek. Mary sauntered over to the litter, where several palfreys, which drew it, were lazily munching the grass. She called for her page to assist her in getting into the litter, frowning as Montmorency laughed at her.

The constable jumped onto his black stallion, draped in red and yellow silk on which blue birds were sewn, just as it was done on his coat-of-arms. "I am not saddened by your rejection of my courteous proposal. My words are as true as you believe them to be false."

"I do not think you are lying," Mary conceded while making herself comfortable in her seat. "But you are exaggerating. The commoners have accepted Anne as their queen."

"The most important thing is what the nobility think of this. Catholic conservatives are your sister's enemies. Those who are interested in heresy and evangelicals support her."

"Well, you are partly right, I suppose."

His laugh goaded his horse into neighing. "You have such a pliant nature!"

"Enough, Monsieur!" Mary closed the litter's window. "You are too ill-bred!"

"Oh, Madame!" The constable's laughter boomed as the party commenced moving.

In an hour, they reached the city of Amiens, whose verdant and gently rolling surrounding landscape was different from Paris, the streets of which were crowded with its inhabitants and visitors for most part. The encroaching dusk cloaked everything in a veil of gray, and the thick mist descended, significantly reducing the visibility within a radius of ten miles.

Slowly, the cavalcade meandered through the foggy roads. After having almost lost their way, they spotted the River Somme and headed east of Amiens. By the time the brick and stone Château de Rambure, flanked by four machicolated round towers, came into view, the darkness had mantled the area like a raven's wing. Mary could not examine the castle, but as they neared, she admired four spiral staircases placed in the internal angles of the corner towers.

§§§

"Monsieur, night is falling quickly," Montmorency's groom fretted.

"As a soldier, I'm accustomed to riding in the dark." The Constable of France was impatient to be off. Tonight he found himself unable to sleep with Mary under the same roof.

Montmorency mounted Triumph, his favorite horse, and slammed his heels into its sides. Rather than take the road, he guided the stallion towards the northern corner of the palace, and then dived into the forest. From a nearby terrace, a stunning view to the river was opening. Maybe a ride along the riverbank would assuage his anxiety caused by Mary's nearness.

As he raced through the apple orchard that lay ahead, his thoughts were drawn back to the queen's sister. He could not call Mary by her second husband's surname. _Damn Mary Boleyn!_ Montmorency cursed silently. _She is lovely despite her age! Why have I been thinking of her since our departure from Fontainebleau?_ He was a married man with a brood of children, one who had no right to have such persistent fantasies about a woman who was not his wife.

Montmorency prodded Triumph on, as he reached the water's edge, seething all the while at himself. Mary had been a mistress of two monarchs; years ago, he had left her after their short, clandestine affair so as to free her for his sovereign. His wife, Madeleine de Savoy, labeled Mary a foolish whore, despite the fact that Mary was nothing short of genteel, superbly educated, and clever, though not being as ambitious and arrogant as Queen Anne had once been.

His union with Madeline de Savoy had been fruitful: they had _seven_ living offspring, _four_ of them boys. He had wed Madeleine only because King François had arranged the match for him, wishing to marry him off to the daughter of his uncle, René de Savoy. Yet, this matrimony was not happy: Montmorency disliked Madeleine for being stunning in an icy way, with her exquisite features, body, and emotions as if carved of marble – not the sort to keep a man warm.

There was no single lady whom the Constable of France could unequivocally trust. For him, women were either cold, reticent, and haughty, or overbearing, lustful, and too proud of their beauty. _I dreamed of having a loving family and a cozy home, but not with Madeleine._

He envied François, whose awesome sister, Marguerite, was a rare exception and had been granted a perfect character above reproach. The many females of questionable reputation, who frequented Montmorency's bed, were most definitely not worthy of his attention, but they, at the very least, were honest in displaying their demands in exchange for their services – a night here, a purse of coins and trinkets there. Montmorency respected their businesslike approach.

Tapping the horse's flanks with his boots, Montmorency rode closer to the river. But as the fog was especially thick in this area, he steered the beast way from the shore and galloped across a wide-open park, where the grass spread over the lawn like verdant velvet. As he discerned the outlines of the château in the distance, Montmorency's stallion suddenly faltered.

"Damn," barked the constable. "What is going on?"

He slowed Triumph to a trot in the vicinity of the rose garden that was a delightful spot full of scents and colors. Even sitting in his saddle, Montmorency felt the pronounced limp, and worry inundated him. Tightening the reins, he hopped down onto the ground and scrutinized each hoof, finding nothing amiss. A baffled Montmorency led the animal through the park.

"Be patient, my friend," he spoke to his horse. "Soon my groom will examine you."

A familiar female voice beseeched, "Please, don't torment this horse, Monsieur! Stop!"

Turning his head, Montmorency gaped at the intruder, whose figure seemed to have been drowning in a white fog. Mary rushed towards him, her red cloak making her more distinguishable in the mist. Astonishment and ire vied for supremacy inside him; the latter won.

He growled, "Why are you issuing commands?"

Mary approached. "Your horse is limping. It was probably injured during your ride."

Had she seen him minutes earlier? His fury intensified, staining his normally good attitude to her. "Madame Stafford, you have no right to order me anything. You know nothing of horses, despite your pretense. I told you to stay at the castle. Why did you disobey me?"

Throwing off her cloak, she darted to Triumph's side. "I'm tempering my anger with you because your horse needs aid. But you are the rudest creature on earth."

His jaw dropped. "What are you going to do?"

She stopped beside the hose and crouched. In a handful of moments, she stated, "There is a tendon on the right foreleg, somewhere between the knee and the fetlock."

Montmorency knelt by the beast and strained his eyesight as he peered at where she had pointed. "A small part of Triumph's foreleg does look swollen. How didn't I notice it?"

Mary descended to her knees and reached out to touch the animal's leg. "The skin is quite warm. He must have stretched his tendons during your charming stroll in the fog."

"Your sarcasm is not suitable for this occasion, Madame."

"And why not? Because the illustrious Constable of France thinks so?"

"The Boleyn wit," Montmorency grumbled. "It might be too acerbic."

"Indeed." Her hand flew to the beast's mouth, and Mary laughed gaily. Triumph nickered softly and lowered his head to rest upon her shoulder. "We will save you, dearest."

Montmorency was startled. "My horse is usually wary of strangers, and only I'm capable of taming him with ease. I've never seen Triumph behave this way. How did you do that?"

This time, Mary's response was enchanting. "I've just bewitched him."

Her repartee was pleasant, but he said, "Madame, I congratulate you. But you are a mere woman, and females do not generally possess the ability to diagnose such injuries."

Her temper spiked. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. King François has a far better attitude to ladies: he is a forward-looking man who comprehends that we are as clever as men and accumulate a special wisdom. You should follow in his gallant and smart footsteps."

Insulted, he sputtered, "Do you realize that we are in an odd situation?"

"Let's go. Some peppermint or other oil will help your friend's injury heal."

"You do not have the skills to treat such injuries."

"Oh, I do." Mary was stroking the stallion's mane.

His brow shot up. "Really?"

Mary's memories of her previous life tumbled in no particular order. "My dearly departed husband, Sir William Stafford, served the King of England as a soldier in Calais, where we met for the first time. He was not a rich man, which was why my father expelled me from the family after our wedding. Will and I lived a simple life at Chebsey in Staffordshire."

"How?" Montmorency wanted to know more about her.

"We owned a farm with a few tenants, and sometimes, we survived through difficult times if our lands barely provided enough to feed the cattle and ourselves. But despite his humble origins and his scarce means of existence, William was an honorable man who made me happy."

A glint of something bordering on surprised admiration flashed in his eyes, although Mary could not see it. "Did you learn to cure animals while working at your farm?"

"Triumph," she called. "If I am not mistaken, you called your horse so."

Apparently, she was no longer inclined to speak about her life in poverty, and Montmorency swerved the topic in the direction where she wanted them to go. "Let's lead Triumph to the stables, where you will see to his care, provided that you don't change your mind."

"I will not." Mary cooed, "A few minutes, and you will no longer feel pain, Triumph."

Montmorency nodded his assent, while Mary grabbed the reins. She led the horse away, swaying her hips enticingly, her gait elegant, and the beast followed her docilely. Within the next several minutes, the air grew heavy with a dampness that remained even as the fog receded.

As they halted near the stables, Montmorency commended, "You are both courageous and knowledgeable of things about which traditional women have no clue."

"Such a cumbersome compliment," Mary riposted with a grin.

"From a general, Madame, and please forgive me for it."

They burst out laughing in unison as they entered the stables. The next moment, the rain began as huge, distinct drops on the roof, but in a minute, it increased in intensity until torrents of water were pouring from the sky. And as Mary and his groom worked on his horse's injury in the scarce light from a torch, Montmorency could see that Triumph was in capable hands.

A faint smile lit up Montmorency's countenance. "Thank you, Madame. I recommend that now you retire for the night. Lord Wiltshire is expected to arrive tomorrow morning."

Words of candor poured out of Mary again. "I could not sleep, so I went for a walk."

"At least try to rest." His lips twitched, as if he were suppressing a question.

Montmorency bowed to Mary, who bobbed a curtsey to him. Given the recent events and their current surroundings, it was the least appropriate way to say goodnight. His laugh of a tried-and-true soldier and her feminine one flowed like an unconventional oxymoron as they exited.

§§§

The bigger part of the night was sleepless for Mary Stafford. She lay staring at her bed's canopy of beige damask festooned with ribbons. Two or three times she dozed, but nightmares gripped her. At dawn, the fingers of fatigue strangled her distress, and she plunged into trance-like nothingness, although the dream of George's execution was torturing her.

An insistent pounding upon the door interrupted her slumber. Mary slowly set up in her bed, disoriented. The first light of day cast hazy shadows across the white carpet.

"Yes?" Mary called out sleepily. "Come in."

Her maid slipped inside, looking as if she, too, had just awakened. She was Anne de La Marck, spouse of the castle owner – Jean III, Seigneur de Rambures and Count de Dammartin.

"Are you all right, Countess de Dammartin?" Mary asked her maid.

Anne's smile was colorless. "Of course, Madame Stafford."

Though concerned about her maid's excessive pallor, Mary didn't comment on the issue. Unusually tall and gaunt, Madame de Rambures wore a stylish yellow brocade gown that stressed her somberness; her black silk stomacher was studded with pearls. Her features were rather plain, but not without their own subtle beauty, and she was not one to stand out in a crowd.

Anne started, "Monsieur de Montmorency has sent for you. Your father has arrived."

"Help me dress." Mary sprang from the bed and began shrugging off her nightclothes.

"As you wish." Anne curtsied and disappeared into the dressing room.

As she slipped into her undergarments on her own, Mary yawned again and again. While she had not slept well that night, she had also become a notoriously late riser in France. Her sense of safety had lulled Mary to such calmness that she had permitted herself to get some much needed sleep to compensate for the lack of it during the nights spent in England after William Stafford's arrest. Yet, Mary feared that the scandalmongers could start a rumor of her laziness.

Soon the countess returned with clothes. "Maybe something grander?"

Mary put on her earrings. "This is not a social call."

"As you command, Madame."

"Quickly!" Mary liked that Anne served her without trying to meddle into her affairs.

Anne laced Mary's stays with quick precision. Then she aided her mistress to pull into a gown of icy-blue brocade, its sleeves lavishly trimmed with golden lace. The countess finished the dressing ensemble with a stomacher that was worked with bright beads on scarlet cloth.

Mary pushed back her unruly tresses. "Oh, dear. My hair."

"I can swiftly plait it," the countess offered, and Mary nodded.

When it was done, Mary studied her reflection in a looking glass. "I look fine."

After thanking the countess, Mary prodded over to the door, her footsteps heavy as if her unwillingness to see Thomas Boleyn had anchored her to the floor. Having forgotten to take her purse with coins, which her sister had given her, Mary ran back to retrieve it and hurried out.

Mary strolled down the spiral staircases. She paused, leaning her head against the smooth frescoed wall, hoping to catch a moment's more rest before meeting with the Boleyn wolf, as she labelled her treacherous parent. At last, she proceeded through the ebony doors to a hallway.

Built during the Hundred Years' war, the castle contained furniture from the 15th and 16th centuries. In some chambers, Gothic pieces exhibited the carving of a geometrical character imported from architecture, as well as the ornamentation motifs such as the pointed arch, the trefoil, the wheel, the rose, and the linen-fold. In other places, most pieces displayed a lighter ornamentation and a less conservative carving. Yet, the atmosphere was largely medieval.

Anne de Montmorency met Mary in the great hall, bowing to her. "Nice to see you again, Madame Stafford. The Earl of Wiltshire is awaiting you in the library."

Mary took his extended hand. "Escort me there, Monsieur Constable."

They passed through a corridor and started climbing the first of many steps in the narrow, winding staircase that would take them to one of the towers. Once Mary's step nearly faltered on the stairs, and Montmorency supported her before she could fall.

"Careful," he advised. "Your anxiety is not worth it."

"But it is not something that we can turn on and off."

While on the last flight of the stairs, Montmorency opined, "There is no actual stress and pain. Your thoughts create these sensations because you are engaged in stressful thinking."

Mary verbalized Anne's beliefs. "My sister is certain that if we take death into our life and face it squarely, we will free ourselves from all worries and the pettiness of life."

"The Boleyn girls became depressed and philosophical due to your afflictions."

"They made us stronger as well." Mary took two steps at a time.

His hand halted her. "Don't hurry up, or you risk breaking your neck." As she blinked, he added, "In everything that touches us on earth, God is pleased when we are happy. He must be dissatisfied with what Queen Anne and her sister think about the life He generously gifted them."

A faint grin lit up Mary's expression. "Perhaps you are right."

"Good humor is a tonic for mind and body. Once we return to court, you will have it in abundance." He then climbed three steps ahead of her and gave her his hand.

Mary clasped it in her own hand. "Thank you, Monsieur."

Inside the tower, there was a hallway. The walls were hung with rich Flemish tapestries, and the ceiling was decorated with garlands of roses. At the end of the hallway, the fireplace was supported by four bronze pillars, and the Rambures coat-of-arms adorned the nearby door.

Montmorency gestured towards this door. "There!"

They entered the small library swathed in brocade the color of buttercups. The room was full of books, which filled shelves from floor to ceiling. The Gothic cabinet, whose exterior panels showed paintings of saints on purple background, stood in the corner. Ebony chairs with spiral legs were placed between a table, a bureau, and chest of drawers in bleached oak.

Mary's scrutiny slid to Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire. Leaning against the cabinet, her father stood with his legs crossed. His shabby doublet of brown velvet and his matching hose proclaimed his financial troubles. He had aged in the past two years: gray hair and beard, and wrinkles scattered across his face. His hazel eyes shone with an insatiable fire of avarice.

Jean de Rambures, Count de Dammartin, bowed low to the queen's sister. It was a sheer pleasure for Mary to shift her gaze to this man at his prime, tall and well built. His attractive face, with blue, twinkling eyes and boyish features, was kind and relaxed, like someone at peace with himself. He was clad in a doublet and hose of auburn brocade wrought with jewels.

Rambures preferred a gallant chat like that at court. "Madame Stafford, looking at you is the key to keeping the sparks of joy flying. Among all the stars in the sky, you are the brightest."

Mary remembered his unhealthy-looking wife. "Monsieur de Rambures is as courteous as every brilliant Frenchman must be." Her answer discouraged him to try and seduce her.

"My castle is at your disposal," Rambures uttered in less enthusiastic tones.

"Thank you." Mary then requested, "Please leave us alone."

"If you say so, Madame." The constable did not mask his worry for her.

After sweeping bows to her, Montmorency and Rambures vacated the library.

"Is Montmorency your lover?" Thomas Boleyn questioned forthrightly.

Abashed, Mary swiveled to face him. "What? That is nonsense!"

Boleyn voiced his observation. "Constable Montmorency is attracted to you. Manifestly, he did not even hide his concern before leaving. You may use it to _the family's_ advantage."

"Ha!" she snorted, with an incredulous look tinged with her disdain for him. "No one will ever find a remedy for your illness. You are chronically infected with thirst for power."

The Earl of Wiltshire voiced his story. "I wrote to the King of France that I had arrived in Calais, and in the same letter I requested a meeting with my daughter. I knew that he would not send Anne to greet me because of her advancing pregnancy. It was my suggestion that we meet halfway from Calais and Paris, for I need to talk with you far from court."

Mary settled in a chair. "His Majesty told me everything."

"In the past, you were afraid to fling in my face what you dislike and to be disrespectful towards me, but now you have the stomach and spine. I love that about you, Mary."

"Respect is earned or lost. Why have you suddenly become so kind, your lordship?"

Her father took off his cap and scratched his head. "I'm no longer young. Your mother left me, but I do not want to be alone. I need to have my wife and daughters by my side."

She eyed him scornfully. "Why are your filial feelings resurfacing now? It is because you lost power and wealth in England, except for your title. However, as now Anne is Queen of France, you are dreaming of carving out a new path to prominence for yourself in her Court. You do not care that you might destroy the happiness of your living children through your plots."

Wiltshire settled himself in a chair across from his daughter. "Over the course of time, I realized that love is not real because it fades away eventually. It has no substance, save the sweet taste of the benefits that your own endeavors to climb the hierarchical social ladder earn for you. Everything that creates hurdles on the path to wealth and influence must be eliminated."

Her boiling temper prompted Mary to stand up. "You dare say such horrible things after you did not aid George and Anne when they needed you the most. Your own testimony against them, which you gave to Cromwell, could have sealed their fates. Yes, I know everything!"

Bafflement painted his countenance. "How?"

Mary's eyes glowed with the intensity of her hatred for the man. "You are a traitor to your own offspring! Because of your accursed ambitions, George was executed, and Anne is separated from Elizabeth forever. I shall never forgive you for my brother's death, and neither shall Anne and our mother!" Extracting the purse from the pocket of her gown, she stepped to him.

Her speech didn't surprise him. "What is it?"

She threw the purse to his feet. "Take it, you immoral filicide! There is enough money here for you to live a comfortable life far from all of us. Just vanish from the face of the earth!"

Refusing to pick it up, Wiltshire taunted, "You will not be able to eject me, Mary. As my wife in the eyes of God and law, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn is my property! I must remind you that upon marriage, a woman's rights and obligations are subsumed by those of her husband in accordance with her legal status. Even King François cannot prohibit me from taking Elizabeth away from France, and I'll do that if you don't make my stay at the Valois court enjoyable."

Implacable aversion emanated from Mary, as though it were tangible. "You are a monster!"

"I've eloquently driven my point home, and I've managed to sound clear whilst doing so. That is a rare feat!" His voice was dispassionate, but a hollowness pierced his vitals.

"Anne's husband will protect us from you." Her voice was layered with aversion.

"But I'll stay at his court." Boleyn rose, straightening to his full height.

Her entire being gleamed in a feral halo. "I wish you had died at Hever."

The next minutes were a blur of activity as Mary enjoined to have the Earl of Wiltshire lodged in the rooms most distant from her apartments. They would depart to where King François ordered soon, but at least she would be far from Wiltshire for a short while. In silence, the Boleyns returned to the great hall, where the Constable of France and the castle owner awaited them.

* * *

 ** _April 12, 1538, Alcázar of Seville, Seville, the Province of Seville, Spain_**

The spacious Salón de Carlos V inside the Palacio Gótico, where the Imperial couple and Lady Mary Tudor were spending the afternoon, was illuminated by a profusion of candles. They had just been lit up to ward off the dark as the shadows of evening were closing in.

Never in her life had Mary seen such exotic, fabulous decorations. As her gaze embraced the chamber, she found herself breathless at the sight of the walls covered with _azulejos_ – Spanish painted, tin-glazed ceramic tilework. Scattered here and there on the walls, the geometric patterns displayed the Moorish architectural legacy. The intricate, gilded wooden ceiling in _mudéjar style_ , which was called _artesonado_ , was absolutely stunning. Nevertheless, Mary felt out of place, for she was not used to a blend of Christian and Moorish architecture.

Mary looked at the empress as Isabella's laughter floated along the length of the walnut table. Seated beside her spouse, Isabella's cheeks were flushed as she bent her head towards his, basking in his presence. They lounged in high-back chairs draped in brown Cordova leather.

"Your Imperial Majesties are such a charming couple!" Mary complimented. Obviously, they were devoted to each other, and her girlish heart dreamt of finding her own true love.

"Thank you, and call me Isabella." The empress' countenance was as radiating as smooth, glassy water without a ripple, which was abundantly illuminated by midday sun.

"I will," Mary gladly assented.

"More watered wine!" enjoined Emperor Carlos. "Have it cooled!"

A group of servants hurried to comply with the order and then vacated the chamber.

Mary gulped the contents of her silver goblet. "At least, now it is not as hot as it was in the daytime when we could scarcely breathe. I really want the night to come."

The empress affirmed, "Our climate is different from that of England, but you will grow accustomed to it. Spain is your home now, and here you are safe, Mary."

"Thank you, Isabella," Mary answered with a smile. "I'm so happy to be in my mother's homeland! My Imperial family are the only relatives I have left."

Isabella slowly drained her goblet. "You are my sister and friend."

Catherine of Aragon's daughter experienced a lightness, vibrant and invigorating, which had been absent in her world for years. "And you are mine, Isabella."

After her arrival in Seville over two months ago, Mary had been lodged in apartments fit for royalty. On the same evening, the Duke of Alba had introduced her to Carlos V, Holy Roman Emperor, and his wife, Isabella of Portugal. To Mary's joy, the empress' hospitality had been instantaneous and all-embracing, while Carlos still remained reserved. During their first meeting, Mary had been accompanied by Eustace Chapuys, who was staying at the palace.

The short silence was broken by Carlos. "Your Highness," he addressed their English cousin. "You are our dear guest, and I'm glad that you have befriended my wife."

"Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty," Mary uttered, as if she were wary of him. Despite her closeness with Isabella, she and Carlos still addressed one another in an official manner.

After pouring more wine for herself, Isabella sipped some. "Be true to yourself and help others. This would make each day your masterpiece, and your friendships will be a fine art."

Her husband leisurely drank red liquid. "Very well said."

"We are all cousins, Carlos – don't ever forget that." Isabella glowered at her spouse. She comprehended that her husband had aided Mary to escape because now it was useful for Spain. "In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of delights."

Mary did not know the couple well enough to feel the tension between them. "My sainted mother once told me that she defined friendship as a bond that transcends all barriers."

Isabella tipped her head. "Great friends are hard to find."

His voice was sympathetic as he spoke after placing his goblet onto the table. "It must have been horrible for you to lose your mother, Your Highness."

Mary lamented, "I was not even allowed to see my mama in her last days!"

"My commiserations over your loss," uttered Isabella emphatically.

The emperor's tone morphed into a flat and unimpassioned sound that was not pleasant to the ears of the two women. "It is God's will when His children die, so we ought to accept it and pray for them." No emotion colored his intonation as he told Mary after a pause, "Your Highness, I endeavored to prevent the annulment of your mother's marriage as much as I could. For many years, I kept Pope Clement and then Pope Paul under my control so that they would not declare the marriage null and void. After England's break with Rome, I never acknowledged the Boleyn witch as the Queen of England, but I could do nothing else to stop King Henry's madness."

A question hovered in the air between Mary and Carlos, but she did not dare ask it. _Why had Your Imperial Majesty not taken my mama and me from the witch's clutches before her death?_ His countenance austere, the emperor did not look amicable, Mary observed ruefully, noticing the taut line of his mouth and the coolness in his gaze – she saw them almost every day.

Instead, Mary pronounced, "I know that, Your Imperial Majesty."

The assessing hazel eyes, though still cold, roamed over her with mild interest. "It is good that your Spanish is so excellent. Aunt Catalina taught you her native tongue very well."

Elation lit up Mary's face. "My mother frequently spoke of her homeland."

"Your Spanish is truly magnificent," Isabella concurred.

Indeed, Mary's command of the language was impeccable. "I was taught to speak Greek, Latin, Flemish, French, and German. My mother requested that my governess and my tutors pay more attention to Spanish than any other language; we also practiced Spanish with her."

Isabella's expression was regretful. "I always wanted to meet with Aunt Catalina."

Carlos crossed himself. "God let her rest in peace."

Isabella echoed her husband. Both she and Mary made the signs of the cross.

Mary envisaged Catherine's affectionate smile on the day when they had last seen each other before their separation. "My mother was King Henry's true wife as long as she lived."

"No one in Spain doubts that, Mary," the empress assured. "I think Aunt Catalina was more like our grandmother, Queen Isabella, than any of her other children."

"Your guess is right, wife," the emperor confirmed. "I met Aunt Catalina during my visit to England years ago. She had our grandmother's hair and eyes, clever and sagacious. I also found in Catalina a combination of strength and fierceness disguised by her regal sangfroid."

Mary was immensely proud of her illustrious bloodline. "We are all descendants of the greatest monarchs the world has ever seen. We must never forget about that."

"We never will," claimed Carlos. "We are more royal than anyone else in Christendom."

At last, the English girl relaxed. "I'm so happy to be here!"

"It is beneficial for you and _us_." His manner of speaking was like that of a ruler, not a cousin.

Mary burst out laughing. Unlike her, Isabella had noticed "the us" part of her husband's statement, and the flash of cunning in his eyes had not escaped her notice either.

At present, the House of Habsburg was going through a severe crisis. Due to the failure in France and the continuing Turkish attacks upon the shores of Spain and her much reduced fleet, the state treasury was totally exhausted. Encouraged by the emperor's setbacks, some German dukes, both Catholic and Protestant, had ceased their economic relations with Spain. Heavily battered by the defeat in France, the Spanish Crown had delayed annual payments to its armies.

If England had allied with the German Protestant States, which were friends of France, the new anti-Habsburrg formation would have become too perilous for a weakened Spain. But King Henry's handy marriage pawn had been snatched right from under his nose. As Henry was not a free man, he would not enter into a matrimony with a Protestant princess; as the English monarch did not have any living siblings, he would not be able to use them for political purposes.

"Do you have news from England?" Isabella switched the topic.

Mary quizzed, "Has my father written to Your Imperial Majesty?"

"He did," Carlos replied with a smile. "Four times; he tried to intimidate me."

Henry's daughter cleared her throat. "He threatened to the Holy Roman Emperor?!"

He idly scratched his protruding chin. "Yes. His anger has blinded him so that he doesn't understand that England cannot harm Spain, despite our unfortunate situation."

"Oh, that is exactly my father's style," Mary muttered.

"What did you reply to him, husband?" Isabella questioned.

"Nothing." Carlos stood up and walked to a window. "Silence is better."

"But he will write again," his consort assumed.

"Perhaps." The emperor looked out into the gardens in contemplation. "But even if he sends me more letters, I'll respond only when a suitable moment comes."

It traumatized the emperor's self-regard that his awful misfortunes were so widely known and discussed. Sniggering at him, his adversaries rejoiced that there was seemingly no remedy to them. Yet, during all of his audiences with diplomats, Carlos remained audacious and regal. His stoic indifference, with which he had faced an envoy from Haireddin Barbarossa a month ago, was a subject of commendation by everyone in the country as the gossip had circulated.

Carlos emphasized on purpose that in contrast to the " _Most Unchristian_ " King François, he would never make peace with the infidels, despite the ongoing blockade of Alicante, Algeciras, Ceuta, and Almería. _Thanks be to God that at least Cádiz, Malaga, Valencia, and Barcelona were freed,_ Carlos ruminated. _Everyone who makes alliances with the Turks and goes against the Holy See is a heretic, whether they are enemies, friends, or even my family members._

Mary's curiosity was at a peak. "When will it happen?"

Carlos strode back to his chair. His answer was enigmatic. "As soon as I deem it possible."

"Excuse me, Your Imperial Majesty?" Mary half-demanded, half-implored.

"What?" He settled himself in his chair. "Patience is a virtue."

"But–" Mary was interrupted.

The emperor lectured, "Don't rush things, Your Highness. Think strategically."

Isabella tore her gaze away from her husband to Mary, who sat as rigid as a soldier during a march. "Mary, everything will be all right. Do you wish to rest?"

Mary bounced to her feet, anxious to get out. "Yes, I am tired." She curtsied and left.

§§§

Isabella confronted her spouse. "Have you invented a scheme to use Mary?"

"To our benefit," Carlos finished frostily. "Yes, I have an idea."

"Carlos," his wife whispered, her perturbed intonation catching his attention. "You will not have Mary imprisoned like Aunt Juana when she outlives her usefulness?"

"Of course not! How can you think so?" He jumped to his feet.

"Oh, Carlos…" She was warmed by his words.

She drank in his athletic figure clad in quilted doublet of dark gray silk and black hose. In spite of her distrust of him, she could not deny that after his recovery, Carlos looked even more handsome than she had remembered him. In her excitement, she threw her arms around his neck as he stepped to his wife and drew her to himself as he feasted kisses upon her face.

Carlos murmured, " _Mi amor_ , I knew you would not be alienated from me for long."

"There will be other time for sweet talk," she redirected the conversation.

Removing his arms from her, he backed away. For a handful of heartbeats, he stood still, never once breaking eye contact with his spouse. "What do you want to discuss, wife?"

"Ferdinand!" cried Isabella emphatically as she stepped away from him.

The emperor sighed helplessly. "I do not know what I can do for my brother. Even if we had agreed with François on the conditions of Ferdinand's liberation, we would have had nothing to pay. His wife would not be able to collect ransom for him because all the proceeds from my brother's domains are being spent on wars against the Ottomans attacking Hungary."

"You would not offer any territories to France, would you?"

Another sigh fled him. "How can I? I am the Holy Roman Emperor and the Head of the Habsburg family. I cannot allow anyone to dissolve our unified territories."

She stressed in the most meaningful accents, "The Lord gave you such a wonderful brother. Ferdinand has always been affectionate towards you and _exceedingly loyal to you_ , swallowing the offences you sometimes heaped upon him. We must rescue Ferdinand at any cost!"

Carlos paced the room. "I love Ferdinand. But so far, we have no money, and we cannot give away our lands gathered into our family's empire by the previous Habsburg generations. We must focus on our inner problems before returning to the subject of Ferdinand's release."

Isabella heard the regret in his voice, but she disapproved of her husband's approach to the matter. "No! We cannot desert Ferdinand. Not even for a year!"

"We have no choice, Bella."

"Ferdinand would consider your abandonment of him a betrayal. He would also blame you for Spain's inability to send any soldiers in order to defend his lands from the Muslims."

Pausing in the middle, the monarch turned to her with a scowl expressing his half-torment and half-anger. "Ferdinand is a monarch himself. He will have to understand us."

She shook her head sadly. "You are a cold-blooded politician even when it comes to the fate of your brother. Have you thought what Ferdinand might do if you leave him alone?"

The alarming words _'Ferdinand's alliance with the House of Valois'_ hovered over their lips, but neither of them pronounced them. It was something akin to premonition, an intuitive hunch.

"Don't allow the loyalty Ferdinand has always had to you to _crack_. If you and Ferdinand ever become enemies, everything will descend into Tartarus." Sudden terror paralyzed her. "If you two grapple for the Imperial throne, rivers of blood will engulf Europe."

"God forbid it happens." He crossed himself.

Once more, a sense of something unknown chilled her. "Deep down, you have always been afraid of Ferdinand's many talents. Ferdinand has always been extremely popular wherever he has ruled. German dukes favor him over you because of his conciliatory religious policies. After your awful fiasco in France and Ferdinand's capture, the discontent within the Holy Roman Empire against you is rising, while they empathize with Ferdinand's French afflictions."

"You know me too well." Indeed, part of Carlos both feared and envied his brother.

"Ferdinand is a good man," her voice underscored every word. "If you do not do anything that he would interpret as a betrayal and antagonize him, he will always side with you."

"Yes, my brother is like François in some ways – they both have a code of chivalry."

Nodding, Isabella announced, "I'll voyage to France to negotiate your brother's release."

He hissed, "I shall not allow you to travel to that Valois miscreant's kingdom!"

The empress placed her hands onto her hips. "I shall go to France anyway! If you refuse to plead with the Valois monarch so as to save your own sibling, I'll beseech François to let Ferdinand go under those terms which His French Majesty will determine." Her voice rose to a crescendo of indignation. "You should worry more about your family than your wounded pride!"

As the accusation rang in the silent room, Carlos held himself taut. Yet, his head dropped in despairing anguish, as his queen darted away from him and swung the door shut.

§§§

The Tudor princess wandered around the Palacio Gótico that consisted of two rectangular rooms, lying parallel to each other, and two smaller rooms situated across them at each end.

The Palacio Gótico had been constructed in the 13th century alongside the vestiges of the old Islamic Almohad palace by King Alfonso X of Castile, known as the Wise, following the conquest of Seville. In Mary's childhood, Catherine of Aragon had described all of the palaces forming the Royal Alcázar of Seville, and now Mary understood why Palacio Gótico represented the triumph of Christian principles and tastes against the Muslim past. Alfonso had chosen Gothic forms because they were associated with Christianity and the Crusades.

The empress approached the younger woman. "The Alcázar of Seville was originally built by Moorish Muslim rulers. Over the centuries, various parts of the Alcázar were again and again adapted to suit the taste of the times and those of kings. In Alfonso X's palace, the elements of Gothic art are so profoundly seen and felt that it looks more European."

Mary swung around to her. "The most prominent features of Gothic architecture include the use of the rib vault, the pointed arch, and the flying buttress." She lifted her hand, pointing towards the roof. "Here, the halls are covered by rib vaults supported by pillars attached to the walls."

"But there are no stained glass windows here," Isabella remarked.

Mary recalled the lessons of her mother and her tutors. "Islamic architecture has distinctive motifs: Arabic calligraphy, rounded arches, vegetative design, and decorative tiles." She gestured towards the walls. "These tiles create a fine mixture of Gothic art with Moorish elements."

"When one enters the Alcázar of Seville, they cannot imagine what lies behind its walls. The same happened to me when Carlos and I arrived here in 1526 for our wedding ceremony. I was so amazed with all the collection of palaces, fortresses, and gardens!"

The royal ladies stood nearby, and their slender frames seemed petite in the room's vastness. The walls were decorated with large tiles, which were somewhat like tapestries and featured pairs of animals, snakes, birds, and cherubs. The upper part of several tiles displayed the coats-of-arms of Spanish royalty and the emperor's motto _'Plus Ultra'_ , or _'further beyond'_ in Latin.

Mary swerved the conversation off into a personal direction. "Isabella, why is the emperor so cautious around me, as if he has not yet determined whether I am his friend or foe?"

In the faint light, Mary saw Isabella's eyes darken with sadness. "After his misadventures in France, my spouse has become more suspicious and guarded. He is overwhelmed with hatred for all those who have ever defeated or humiliated him in some way. Now he is a different man, and I'm afraid I'll not have my beloved husband back… That might become my damnation."

As a sympathetic understanding flashed across her features, Isabella was glad that Mary had accepted this explanation. Smart and precocious, Mary was still too young to grasp the intricacies of deadly political intrigues woven at royal courts. _At least Mary is no longer serving her bastard sister, and she will not be forced to marry a heretic,_ Isabella's comforting thoughts were. Yet, her heart weighed heavily in her breast because Isabella could not fathom her husband's game.

"Anne Boleyn," Mary Tudor hissed in a sibilant voice that sounded like the Holy Father's damnation of the worst heretic on earth. "I blame that whore for my and my mother's troubles."

A shiver trembled down Isabella's spine. "Hate is the most debilitating emotion, and it can keep you from being content. Darkness cannot drive out hate – only love can."

Mary shook her head. "I loathe that demoness with my whole heart!"

"The poison of loathing in one's blood doubles the burden for those who suffer."

However, Mary persevered, "The witch must be punished for her crimes."

Unconsciously, Mary's fingers clasped the gleaming gold band that loosely encircled her neck. This thing of beauty, expertly crafted to resemble a thick, golden rope, had once belonged to Catherine of Aragon, and Chapuys had given it to the bastardized princess. To Mary, this band reminded her of her dearly departed mother, as well as the countless perfidies of the Boleyn strumpet whom she considered guilty of Catherine's poisoning, as Chapuys had assured her.

Despite the passage of time after Catherine's death, pain twisted Mary's insides into knots. That and her thirst for vengeance against Anne Boleyn. Mary's relief was her confidence that the House of Habsburg was still powerful enough to recover from all afflictions and then to launch a new invasion into France. The grim satisfaction that the harlot had failed to provide the Valois monarch with a son also warmed Mary's soul, chilled by her antagonism and loneliness.

Mary crossed herself, and words of prayer in Latin tumbled from her lips. "God bless and grant to my mother's soul eternal rest in peace. Your providence guides our lives; I beg you to help me fulfill my destiny and save England from heresy, which is why I've arrived in Spain."

The Tudor girl was startled by Isabella's expression of shock. "What are your goals, Mary?"

"I intend to ask His Imperial Majesty to help me restore my rightful heritage."

The empress measured her with a sad look. "Spain has been weakened and stymied."

"Do you imply that you cannot help me?"

"Mary," said Isabella in a gentler tone. "Let me be blunt: your head is full of delusions and fantasies. The sooner you get rid of them, the better it will be for you, my dear."

Catherine of Aragon's daughter blanched. "Delusions?"

"Carlos will not send any forces to England to wage war against King Henry. Not now and not even when our problems will be over, God help us. Carlos' priorities lie elsewhere: to save his impoverished realm, to crush the House of Valois, and to defend the Habsburg territories from both the Ottomans and the spreading heresy within the empire." Her voice rose an octave. "Mary, do you really wish your countrymen to plunge into a mire of civil wars?"

Mary thought of the internecine cousins' wars in her home country. "No, I don't. I would want peace and prosperity in England that must be restored to the flock of Rome."

"Under your rule? England may prosper not only if you become her queen."

It was something that had never occurred to Mary before. "I don't know..."

"Do you wish King Henry to be deposed?"

An abashed Mary shook her head. "Regardless of how much pain my father caused me and my late mother, I would never have done such a horrible thing to him."

Isabella aimed to dim her hopes for queenship. "So, you do not want Englishmen to be killed just because you or someone else wrestle for power. Your feelings are a tangle of conflicts."

"I would prefer to hear different things," the younger woman complained.

"Isn't the truth better?" As Mary nodded reluctantly, Isabella confided, "I pray that you will not be embroiled in any intrigues. Remember one thing: Ferdinand, our cousin, will always take care of you. Our future is unpredictable, and if Carlos or I cannot aid you, contact Ferdinand."

Mary deduced, "Is our captive cousin honorable?"

"Very much so. I met him several times in Flanders when Carlos summoned me there during his long absences. I love Carlos wholeheartedly as a husband, and adore Ferdinand as a cousin."

"I'll not forget that. Now I feel so relieved that I am not under my father's control."

"Let the past go," the empress advised. "Or there will be no peace for you."

"We might be overheard here." Mary's head pivoted back and forth.

Isabella nodded. The chamber was empty, but servants or Carlos could appear at any time.

The two women returned to _the Salon de los Tapices_ adjacent to the room where they had spent the better part of the afternoon. As they passed through the huge vaulted hall, they admired the awesome wall tapestries portraying the emperor's conquest of Tunisia of 1535.

Soon they exited into _the Patio del Crucero_ , or Courtyard of the Crossing, whose layout was a cross-shaped garden. The smell of orange trees hit them straight away.

Isabella told her cousin, "Your troubles are over, Mary. Over time, you will change."

"Not as long as the Boleyn she-devil always wins," contradicted Mary.

A moment later, Emperor Carlos came to the courtyard. Mary's countenance, marred by her aversion towards Anne, made Isabella think of her own husband who was so infected with mortal loathing for the Valois ruler that it was corroding his conscience and his spirit.

* * *

 _I hope you are all safe from Covid-19. I'm still staying in lockdown in Tuscany. Be well!_

 _Thank you for reading this chapter! Let me know what you think._

 _As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 at . Check the stories "Court of Thorns and Roses" and "Hourglass" by WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Give a try to FieryMaze's stories!_

 _I hope you like the insight into Anne de Montmorency's marriage and his scenes with Mary Stafford. In this AU, they had had an affair in the past before Mary caught the eye of King François, and Montmorency ended their relationship allowing his sovereign, to whom his loyalty is immeasurable, to be with Mary. Can you predict anything?_

 _In this AU, Thomas Boleyn has many flaws and is obsessed with power, but he_ _is maligned for drama_ _. First of all, he was a talented and competent ambassador who was successful long before Mary and Anne became associated with King Henry. In history, Thomas was not fond of Anne's marriage to the king, but later he seems to have gone along with the plan. We don't know for a certainty what Thomas Boleyn was really like as a person or father, but it is clear that he is villainized in fiction and on TV._

 _I hope you like Mary Tudor's friendship with Isabella. The empress attempts to make Mary disillusioned, but it is not easy to shatter Mary's delusions – it will eventually happen, but not now. Isabella also hints that Mary might find herself at the center of the Habsburg intrigues, which Mary cannot grasp it yet. Mary will remember Isabella's advice about Ferdinand. Isabella prudently warns Carlos that he should never allow Ferdinand's loyalty to him to crack._

 _This is the last calm chapter before several turbulent chapters. Be prepared!_

 _All the descriptions of Château de Rambures in France and of Alcázar of Seville in Spain, as well as all the information given about them is historically correct._

 _Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	29. Chapter 28: Prisoners of Fate

**Chapter 28: Prisoners of Fate**

 ** _April 20, 1538, Château de Fontainebleau,_ _Fontainebleau, France_**

Charles de Valois, Duke d'Orléans, sauntered through the corridors. His swagger was more wine induced than an attempt to strut. That afternoon, Charles had attended the festivities for the Ambassador of Dania, organized by Marguerite of Navarre, and gotten himself heavily drunk.

Opening his bedroom's door, Charles called for a servant, but no one replied. He slipped inside and then groped for a candle before finally getting it alight. As its dim light illumined the room, he surveyed his surroundings with admiration. Like his father, he loved Fontainebleau more than other royal palaces and was always happy to spend as much time at court as possible.

The spacious room had brocaded walls the color of pale honey, two of them frescoed with a cycle illustrating allegories of the months and seasons. Oak, amber Italian furniture was scattered about the area. There was a window overlooking the gardens, and a door through which he could proceed out to the balcony and contemplate the ornate watchtower. Inside the bedroom, there was also a writing table, piled with books, and couches with lemon-colored covers.

"I love this castle," Charles muttered as he eased himself into a nearby chair.

"More than women?" a feminine voice came from the depths of the chamber.

As his gaze drifted to a canopied bed draped with midnight sky covers, his breath caught in his throat. The curtains were open, and he groaned in mingled disbelief and excitement as he saw the naked Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly there. A shaft of light flooded obliquely on to her slender figure, as she reclined onto the pillows, making her long, blonde hair gleam with pale gold upon her shoulders. The prince's attraction to this siren, which he had not been able to deny even during Anne de Pisseleu's tenure as his father's mistress, was now stirring in his loins.

"My prince!" The Duchess d'Étampes greeted him with an alluring toss of her head.

"Madame?" The nonplussed prince paused for a moment.

The former royal mistress wordlessly laughed at him. "Your Highness, this awkwardness of yours is so very tempting. You are almost fifteen, so it is high time to become a man."

A shocked Charles felt swooning. "My father..."

Anne beckoned him to her. "He sent me away, so I'm free. And I want you now."

"Really, Madame?" Flames of lust ignited in his whole being.

"Yes!" She touched her own breast. "Come here!"

"God!" She was all lush curves and softness, and he wanted her so much that he burned.

The eccentric Charles was still a virgin, although he had been tempted many times before. Sympathetic to the Protestant doctrines, just as Anne de Pisseleu was, Charles had been a member of her intellectual circles. He had admired her gorgeous appearance and her intelligence. Charles would never have dared to bed his father's paramour, but François had set her aside months ago. Now the duchess had confirmed her dismissal as his father's _maîtresse-en-titre_ herself.

Wobbling, the Duke d'Orléans stumbled to the bed and fell onto it. Her arms snaked around his back, and Anne de Pisseleu pressed him closer to herself, until all his weight lay on her. Her tremendous beauty, heightened by her provocative smile and her languorous pose, awakened a ravenous hunger in the prince. Her nude body clinging to Charles was perfect for him, and the young man was at a point of no return as Anne let her tongue travel up his neck to his lips.

"You shall be exceedingly satisfied." The sweetness of her words undid him.

"It is unthinkable." He fused his mouth to hers.

She chortled. "I shall teach you kissing very well, my dearest Highness." She undressed Charles hurriedly, pulling off his doublet and then unlacing his hose.

When he was naked, she positioned Charles on his side so that she could caress his body, including his private parts, in the way that left him beg for more. She was trailing kisses along his jawline, neck, chest, and stomach, drawing labored breaths from his mouth. He trembled as she directed his erection to where she needed it the most, but once he penetrated her, Charles could not help but feel new power blossoming in his maleness with every heartbeat as she rode him.

Cupping his face, Madame d'Étampes whispered, "You have become a man, Charles!"

"Have I?" the prince inquired, as if unsure of what had transpired between them.

"My man," she exclaimed fiercely, arching her hips into his thrusts.

Soon Charles fell asleep in her arms, and Anne de Pisseleu watched him. She had become the lover of the monarch's son because now it was her only way to delve into some of François' secrets and win a portion of her lost power back. However, as they had made love, it had occurred to her that Charles' physique was so much like François' that she had enjoyed their intimacy.

 _Fate has a bizarre sense of humor,_ Anne lamented silently. _François discarded me, but now I am his youngest son's paramour._ Banished from court, she had used her connections to get into the palace – she had convinced a guard, her former lover, to let her inside surreptitiously.

François de Valois was Anne's _obsession_ , and she craved to be his muse, but he had not summoned her back to court. The news of Queen Anne's second pregnancy had both irked and hurt the duchess. This affair was the result of her spontaneous actions, but she did not regret anything. Nevertheless, as waves of pleasure had been rocketing through her body during her intercourse with Charles, Anne had forced herself not to cry out his father's name.

After minutes of hesitation, Anne de Pisseleu resolved to play a game with Charles. "Dream of me, you lusty lad." She then disentwined herself from him.

Having dressed herself, the duchess left her black silk stocking with the initial 'A' next to Charles' sleeping form, tiptoed to the door, and exited. The obvious thing, of course, was to leave Fontainebleau and return to her Parisian mansion before someone could discover her.

As dawn brushed the sky, Charles opened his eyes. His head heavy from hangover, he could barely remember the night. His mind was in turmoil once he spotted a female stocking on the sheets. His sated body was relaxed, yet he felt exhausted, as if he had run from Marathon to Athens as Pheidippides had done. Had he slept with someone, or was it a figment of his imagination?

"Who is she?" A bewildered Charles took in the initials.

The 'A' on the stocking could refer to a woman named Anne, but she could not be Queen Anne of France. He was intrigued as to the possibility that the other Anne, who had once been his father's Venus, had entered his bed hours ago. Therewith, his brain reproduced the visions of his coupling with Anne de Pisseleu, inflaming his cheeks with a flush of male pride. Now Charles believed that he had lost his virginity to the Duchess d'Étampes, and he did not regret it.

* * *

 ** _May 6, 1538, Château d'Azay-le-Rideau, Loire Valley, France_**

"Will I die in France?" Ferdinand von Habsburg lamented. He still could not resign himself to the fact that he – King of the Romans and the second man in the Holy Roman Empire, as well as King of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia, a Habsburg Archduke – was a prisoner.

Angered by his helplessness, the captive paced his quarters furiously. He was not interested in the paintings on the walls, or in the rich furnishings. Instead, the intricately handcrafted, gilded pieces and the priceless works of art irritated Ferdinand. Since his capture, Ferdinand had been kept in several palaces, owned by the Crown or one of the French king's most loyal subjects.

After the Battle of Bourges, Cardinal François de Tournon had visited Ferdinand in Château d'Harcourt in Normandy. The prelate had informed him that Carlos, though severely wounded on the battlefield, had fled to Spain. At first, Ferdinand had rejoiced, thinking that Carlos would recover from his injuries and then bring reinforcements to rescue him. Yet, his hopes had dwindled upon learning that the Spanish ports had been either attacked or besieged by the Ottoman fleet.

After the war, Ferdinand had been transported to his current residence. For months, he had had no idea whether his brother was alive until Tournon had apprised him of Carlos' survival. No one had visited Ferdinand or written him, as though he had disappeared from the face of the earth. He had demanded that François come to him, but his words had fallen on deaf ears. Ferdinand had masterminded two plans of escape, but each of them had been thwarted. The château that was now his home was set on an island in the middle of the river, so it was impossible to run away.

Striding to and fro, he examined the room that had two stories. Spacious and furnished with high-back chairs, upholstered in asparagus velvet and leather. On a gallery up a staircase were book-stacks lined with red silk, where Ferdinand often read. A carved bed, which dominated an alcove in the corner, was swathed in a collection of silk: burnished golds, dark blues, vivid greens, deep reds, tender beiges, and light pinks. _At least François allows me to live in luxury._

At last, Ferdinand halted, his scrutiny fixed on the painting of a fierce battle, with corpses littering the blood-soaked grass. He recognized the hand of Filippo Lippi, who was one of his favorite painters. Stroking his slightly protruding chin, his mind drifted back to the emperor.

"Damn you, brother!" Ferdinand balled his fists. "Why haven't you ransomed me yet?"

A voice spoke in Spanish. "Carlos is too preoccupied with his internal problems."

Recognizing the charming French accent, Ferdinand swung around. Clad in azure, black, and golden brocade, King François stood at the doorway, a gold crown upon his head. With the same jaunty smirk that Ferdinand had seen on his enemy's face on the night of his capture.

"Finally, Your Majesty," Ferdinand began in accented French, which he knew well.

As François entered, the door behind him was immediately shut and locked.

To demonstrate his disrespect, Ferdinand stomped over to a chair and eased himself into it. "Oh, such a legendary guest! Nowadays Your Majesty must be compared with Charlemagne as you defeated the emperor. Are you wearing a crown for pomp? You may hold a golden scepter and a gold chalice as well, but even then, no Habsburg, man or woman, would be impressed."

 _Ferdinand looks well,_ François observed. _His captivity is so different from mine in Madrid._ Indeed, in his sumptuous clothes, the emperor's brother looked like a courtier, if not for a shade of melancholy about him. Ferdinand's doublet of brown velvet was stamped with geometrical motifs, which reminded of the European and Moorish ornamentation in Spanish palaces.

The French ruler crossed to a black leather-covered chair. "I don't see why you are trying to rub into my face how much better the Habsburgs are than the Valois."

Now Ferdinand was in an increasingly livid mood. "It is gospel truth, you immoral French blackguard!" His anger propelled him to bounce to his feet. "Do you think that I'll admire you and your country? You have no right to keep me as your prisoner for one year and a half. I am the King of Hungary, Croatia, and Bohemia! Most importantly, I am the King of the Romans!"

This was the last straw for François. "In Madrid, at first I strove to behave heroically, but the prison life drained me quickly. In that old fortress, where I lived, water dropped onto my head through the cracks in the ceiling, and if outside the rain was heavy, it flooded my small cell. The wretched stench made me cringe every time I breathed. In autumn and winter, it was rather cold in the cell, the wind screaming night and day, and the wooden floor sloped."

"That is not true," objected Ferdinand.

"Ask your brother," François deadpanned. Although pain, shame, and hatred tormented him from the inside, only sarcasm tinged his voice. "Carlos was too gentle with me in Spain, for he is such a noble-hearted man. Thanks to his kindness to me, my health deteriorated, and I contracted a severe fever. I was profoundly undernourished because my jailers did not feed me well."

The emperor's brother did not want to believe the man whom he had always considered his family's worst adversary. "I heard that your life in prison galled you, and that you were sick. But my brother would never have treated a foreign monarch so horribly."

"Ferdinand," François addressed him in a personal manner. "Did he lie that I lived in luxury, like you do now? Did he say that I feigned my illness to make him meet with me?"

"Yes," Ferdinand recalled, confused.

"Carlos lied to you. Your sister, Eleanor, God bless her soul, and your sister-in-law, Isabella, were there. As far as I know, they counselled Carlos against treating another king so harshly, but your brother hated me too much to care. The emperor dreamed of breaking me, and he almost succeeded. During my illness, I even decided to abdicate my throne in favor of my son, the late Dauphin François, but my sister, Marguerite, convinced me against doing that."

"Eleanor and Isabella both told me that Queen Marguerite helped you recover."

As memories of those awful days became move vivid in his brain, François blanched like a fatally wounded soldier. "Marguerite has always been my guardian angel. She rushed to Spain to negotiate my release, only to find me close to death. She demanded that the emperor have me moved to another place, and once it was done, my sister nursed me back to health. I remember her worried face as Margot wiped the feverish sweat from my forehead, and I pulled through."

His voice thin and strangled, François continued, "I was forced not only to sign the Treaty of Madrid, but also to send my two eldest sons – François and Henri – to Spain." Ire flared in his orbs. "My boys were kept hostage for several years in Madrid, while France collected a ransom for me. My poor sons! At first, the living conditions in their prison were tolerable, but soon they were deprived of even basic comforts, despite Eleanor's and Isabella's attempts to take care of them. My eldest son, François, never regained his health after those horrors."

Ferdinand directed at him a hard stare. "You are the only one to blame for the sufferings of your offspring. You tried to take the Duchy of Milan from the Spanish control."

"I am not responsible for the inhuman imprisonment of my sons. I was not in Spain."

"You hold my brother accountable." Ferdinand's face was both sullen and annoyed.

"Gods be damned!" François uttered in a bored tone. "You spent too much time in Austria, Bohemia, and Germany. Carlos manipulated you into thinking that he was my victim."

"François," the King of Hungary said tiredly. "I do not know what to believe."

François smiled sympathetically. "The days of one's captivity are uncertain and frightening in their monotony. Even when nothing bad happens and you have to simply wait, you are afraid that you are just walking through the valley shadowed by death. I know this."

"You experienced that in Spain." This time, no malice colored Ferdinand's tone.

Sighing, the Valois ruler recollected, "Only in rare moments of forgetfulness, I was happy. Sometimes, my imagination would carry me to the green gardens of Amboise, where I grew up, or to the forests of Cognac, where I ran with Montmorency and Chabot in our childhood. At times, I would fancy myself flying in the sky like a bird, perhaps because Leonardo da Vinci, my dearly departed friend, once told me that one day, human beings would be able to fly. But death lurked in my rooms, unobstructed by the bars on my windows, from where it could charge at me, trample, and crush me – a king in prison, yet a mortal man – into a mass of bones and flesh."

Though unwilling to admit that his elder brother was capable of treating a fellow monarch so dreadfully, the captive saw that François spoke convincingly and candidly about his woes in Ferdinand's homeland. _Did Carlos tell me falsehoods about François and his time in Spain?_

François' baritone intruded into his musings. "Regardless of what you think of me, I would never have done things to another royal that your brother did to me and my family. Truth be told, it is wrong to take any monarch prisoner. Yet, I cannot deny that your presence in France pleases me, Ferdinand. You cannot complain on our hospitality, for you enjoy a good life here."

Rage was rising in Ferdinand again. "Of course, you are happy to take revenge on my family for your own afflictions. And now my brother does not fight for me because the Spanish realm is devastated by the invasion of France, the wars against the Turks, and God knows what else…"

The King of France regarded the man with a sour grin. "Your brother sent only one envoy to me – Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle. He did not offer me anything interesting."

"I know Granvelle well. He is not a pleasant man."

"On that we agree fully, Ferdinand. I confess that I decided to keep you captive for some time for personal reasons, but no one can blame me for my aversion towards your family."

"You also mistreated my sister Eleanor."

François narrowed his eyes. "Forced to wed her, I despised Eleanor as much as I loathe your other relatives. She was a good woman, but I could not make myself treat her as a wife. I should have been a better husband to her." His voice was as loud as the sound of horns on the battlefield as he emphasized, "But _I did not murder her_. Did Carlos lie to you about that, Ferdinand?"

His opponent sighed. "My brother told me that you had killed Eleanor because you hated her and wanted to marry your mistress – Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, Duchess d'Étampes."

"Eleanor died of consumption." It was exactly as the King of France thought: Carlos had lied even to his own brother. "She coughed up blood for a long time, slowly fading."

"Of natural causes, then." Ferdinand's voice was dismal.

"Yes, it is so. You should take everything Carlos says with a grain of salt."

Ferdinand resumed pacing the room. "In any case, I'll try to escape again."

François rose to his feet. "In the 12th century, one French nobleman, who was a knight in the service of King Philip II Augustus, built this fortress on an island in the center of the Indre River. It was necessary to protect the Tours to Chinon road, where it crossed the river. Since then, the castle was rebuilt, and now it is one of the most secure fortresses in the Loire Valley."

"Damn you, François!" Ferdinand gasped as if fighting for his breath. "Let me go!"

The Valois monarch shook his head. "Not until I hear something interesting from Imperial ambassadors that will make up for the loss of my honor when I signed the Treaty of Madrid."

"Will you negotiate my liberation with Carlos?" Ferdinand asked unsteadily.

"It is in vain because your brother's treasury is empty. I highly doubt that Carlos would be ready to give any lands away in order to have you released, Ferdinand."

"You cannot know that." The prisoner returned to his chair.

"Carlos is a cold-blooded politician before being your brother. Hasn't life already proved that? The whole world knows that he has not always been fair to you despite your loyalty."

Ferdinand's silence and the sagging of his shoulders were the best answer. François felt bad: clearly, Ferdinand loved and admired his elder sibling, in some ways still idealizing him.

"Do you need anything, Ferdinand?"

"François, I'm grateful for Spanish, Flemish, and German musicians. I'll keep inviting them to entertain me because they remind me of all my homes – Spain, Flanders, and Austria."

"My friend," the ruler of France jested, "if you want something, you need only to ask."

The King of Hungary shot back, "The commandant of this castle is so generous that he sends even women who look like ladies. I've told him many times that I do not need them."

François tipped his head back and laughed. "They are not prostitutes, so you will not get infected by any disease. They are all pretty, so you may choose someone according to your tastes."

"Are they your lovers and spies?" Ferdinand jeered. "I do not need such shameful services."

"Really? I was told that you were unfaithful to your wife on a few occasions."

"It is none of your business." How did the French know that?

François extracted a sheet of paper from the pocket of his doublet and put it on a nearby table. "Isabella is going to visit France, just as my Margot once arrived in Spain."

The other man perked up noticeably. "When?"

"Within several months, and I shall accept her. This is a letter from the empress."

Ferdinand's visage brightened. "God has heard my prayers!" He then asked, "François, tell me what you know about my children and my wife – my Anna. How are they doing?"

Anna of Bohemia birthed King Ferdinand many children during their long marriage. They had two sons – Archdukes Maximilian and Ferdinand. Their eight daughters were: Archduchesses Elisabeth, Anna, Maria, Magdalena, Catherine, Eleanor, Margaret, and Barbara. Their last child – Barbara – had been born in the winter of 1537, a few months after Ferdinand's capture.

François saw that Ferdinand was very devoted to his family. "All of your children are in Vienna, and be at ease – they are all healthy. Your friend and general from Bavaria – Philip, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg – arrived in Austria to take care of them. The regency in Austria and in all your other domains fell to one of your most loyal Austrian nobles – Trojan von Auersperg."

"Philip!" Ferdinand was glad to hear about his close friend. "I trust him fully." Suddenly, his expression dropped like a stone thrown into water. "Why is my wife not my regent?"

"I'm very sorry for your loss." François sent him a compassionate look.

"What?" Ferdinand questioned, but François walked out without any other word.

The prisoner rushed to the table and grabbed the letter, which his enemy had left there. His eyes skimmed through his sister-in-law's handwriting, and his heart collapsed.

With a despondent cry, Ferdinand tore the paper into pieces. "No! Anna!"

A veil of grief shrouded Ferdinand's entire world, and tears moistened his eyes. His beloved spouse, Anna of Bohemia and Hungary, was dead. She had passed away two months ago of fever while she had toured their lands in order to recruit more able-bodied soldiers into her army to fight against the Ottomans, who had advanced into the heart of Hungary.

"God! My Anna!" Tears flowed from Ferdinand's eyes. Even Isabella's promise to get him out of his prison did not console Ferdinand, who yearned to join his wife in heaven.

The bereft prisoner tumbled to his knees. He cursed the day when Carlos had persuaded him to subjugate France. Turning to a window, he saw that the warm May sunshine descended from the heavens to kiss the grass, which he could not see from his prison, although he was allowed to stroll in the gardens from time to time. _The sunshine sparkles on leaves and flowers like a thousand points of light,_ Ferdinand thought. _Just as Anna's eyes did every time we saw each other._

§§§

The King of France and Anne de Montmorency, who had arrived from Paris to the Loire Valley two weeks earlier, passed through a hallway. The loud quarrel of Mary Stafford and her father, the Earl of Wiltshire, caught their attention, and they paused, listening attentively.

Mary yelled, "I shall not allow you to make our life a living hell!"

Montmorency threw open the door and stood aside for his liege lord to enter the small room that was simple in its furnishings. Yet, it had a pleasant look: a mahogany table in the center, and a multitude of oak chairs arranged in the form of a quadrilateral around it.

"No one will harm my wife." The monarch glowered at Wiltshire.

Thomas Boleyn performed an obsequious bow. "Your Majesty, I'm delighted to see you! You are a more celebrated ruler than the Roman Emperor Gaius Octavius Augustus." His French was flawless, for he knew it perfectly well as a former English ambassador to France.

Annoyed, François strode over to a chair. "Enough of your blather, Monsieur Boleyn."

Montmorency's alert scrutiny oscillated between the Boleyns. At his sovereign's nod, he walked out, but in a moment, he was back again, bringing a paper and handing it to his king.

Mary curtsied to her brother-in-law, who motioned for her to take a seat next to him. Wiltshire remained standing at the other side of the room, frowning at his daughter. Glaring at the old man, Montmorency passed him and took his place behind the king's chair.

In silence, the monarch looked through the parchment. Then he shifted his scrutiny to the Earl of Wiltshire. "My queen's beloved sister wrote to me after your meeting at Château de Rambures. At that time, some of my government officials and I were touring through towns in the Loire Valley. She informed me that you wished to see me, Monsieur Wiltshire. That is why I summoned you both to Château d'Azay-le-Rideau, and Monty escorted you here."

Mary shot a glare towards her father. "Your Majesty, this despicable man threatened to take our mother away from France if I don't secure for him your permission to live here."

A humiliated Wiltshire lost his temper. "You are a wanton! A disobedient daughter–"

François cut him off. "I fully agree with her characterization of you."

"Don't you dare insult her!" Montmorency hollered.

"I'm the king's father-in-law," hissed Wiltshire.

"It matters not to me," Montmorency flung back. "You are a mongrel!"

Boleyn's chin lifted in a defiant manner. "Why are you defending her?"

Mary prevented the earl from voicing his thoughts of Montmorency's attraction to her. "You call me a whore when you yourself advised me to seduce King François and then made me set myself in King Henry's path. I would not become a mistress of two kings without your influence."

After throwing an anguished glance at Mary, the ruler addressed his father-in-law. "I chose this place for our audience on purpose, Monsieur Wilshire. Your stay here will be comfortable."

"What does Your Majesty imply?" Fazed, Boleyn rubbed his chin.

François howled with caustic laughter. "It is a breathtaking moment when you feel heat of ambition within yourself, and you realize that you have accomplished your aims."

Mary's parent bit his lip. "Your Majesty, I'm confused."

The king jested, "You will live in this picturesque place."

"Oh? Why?" Boleyn pricked up his ears.

François stared at the man with disdain. "Be grateful that I allow you to stay in France."

"Thank you, sire," Mary told the monarch, who grinned at her.

The ruler handed to his advisor the parchment. His countenance marred with implacable scorn, Montmorency stomped to where Wiltshire stood and passed on the document to him.

Thomas Boleyn read the royal decree to appoint him one of the guards at the castle. "Who is this prisoner? Is it the emperor's brother – King Ferdinand?"

François did not answer his question. "Your commander is Monsieur Antoine de Raffin, the castle owner and my knight-at-arms. You will serve him as though you were his vassal."

His pride deeply hurt, the disappointed earl implored, "Your Majesty, do not humiliate me so! I beg you to let me be reunited with Elizabeth and my daughters!"

The king did not care a whit about this man. "Only when you deserve it."

Boleyn sought to reassert his value. "I shall do anything!"

"Too late." François rose to his feet.

A moment later, Antoine de Raffin walked in the room and bowed to Wiltshire. He had already been instructed to make the queen's father his soldier, but to keep him in comfort.

"Bow to Antoine," enjoined François. "For now, he is your master."

Shuddering in barely concealed rage, Boleyn made a stiff bow.

Raffin pledged, "I'll comply with Your Majesty's orders." He wondered why his sovereign treated his father-in-law in such a peculiar fashion, but it was not his concern.

After Raffin's leaving, Boleyn enquired deferentially, "Anything else I can do for you?"

"Not a thing," was the abrupt royal answer.

"I'll be always at Your Majesty's service as your dutiful subject and–" Wiltshire did not complete the sentence because the king, Mary, and Montmorency swept out of the room.

Thomas Boleyn dropped into a chair. François had overheard him and Mary by chance! He should not have displayed his exasperation, having angered the Valois ruler. _I want to be involved into politics again,_ Wiltshire craved. _I shall rise to a position of prominence against all odds!_

* * *

 ** _May 19, 1538, Leeds Castle, Kent, England_**

"Anne," King Henry said against his lover's mouth. "Let's enjoy the pleasures of flesh."

His lips kissed her neckline and seized hers as if they were the rarest of gems. Lady Anne Seymour, Countess of Hertford, moaned when his hands came to rest against her back. Lifting the fabric of his doublet, which was half-unbuttoned, she sighed at the feel of her fingers touching his hairy chest that was broad as a door, unlike her husband Edward's narrow one.

As the ruler carried her to a nearby table, a bile rose in her throat. Anne did not wish to be the monarch's mistress, but there was no other way to stay afloat at court if Queen Jane failed to birth a Tudor prince again. God, how she wanted to pretend this had all been a figment of her imagination! But her liaison with Henry had helped her realize that Edward Seymour, her husband, so cruel and so calculative in his pursuit of power, was a man she could learn to love.

"Kiss me more deeply," demanded Henry as he placed her on the table.

This sobered Anne. "Should we really do this in Your Majesty's study?"

His aquamarine eyes were smoldering with physical hunger, but there was a hard edge to the expression in them. "Don't make a mistake with me. Always yield to me – always!"

She swallowed her scorn towards him. "As you command, sire."

Henry tucked Anne's skirts beneath her and pushed between her legs. Anne gasped as he thrust into her with a grunt. The egocentric Henry cared mostly about his own carnal needs, always fierce and sometimes even ferocious to the point of feral recklessness when he could pound into a woman so very deeply and rather roughly, while ignoring her discomfort. Fortunately, Edward's spouse was not fond of gentleness in bed and reacted normally to his ministrations.

She shook her head. "I'm worried that we are in the study."

"Why?" He froze inside of her.

"I don't know, Your Majesty." A little worm of premonition was crawling slimily among the hairs on her neck. Was this her irrational instinct that something could go wrong?

He leaned closer, those fiery eyes of his holding her captive. "Do you understand what I feel for you now? I must possess all of you, Anne – body, mind, and soul."

The main ingredient that made a man's life enjoyable was a willingness on the part of the female – either his wife or his mistress – to satisfy all his whims, and Henry was a controlling type. _I shall bend her to my will_ , Henry vowed wordlessly. His paramour did not need to know that now he addressed not only her, but also the other Anne. In each of the Annes Henry would seek the fire of life, joy, and passion similar to that of the treacherous Boleyn goddess.

This irked her to such a significant degree that with a gargantuan effort, she fended off the impulse to slap him. "As my king, you are the lord of my life as long as I live."

"I'm your master!" His lips were now marauding hers. "You are mine!"

She gave a curt nod. "Like all English women and–"

Her sentence was not finished as the ruler drove so violently into the center of her feminity. He was beyond caring if he hurt her: all that mattered was satisfying his insane lust. The muscles in her legs stiffened, making his penetration into her a bit more painful, and she unclasped her hands from about his neck, burrowing her nails into the papers, which lay on the table.

Her breath caught as he grunted, "I shall always dominate you, Anne."

"Please be gentle," she requested for the first time since their affair had started.

The king kissed her brow. "I'll grant your wish. You are so feminine!"

As Henry lavished her with kisses and whispered endearments into her hair and her ear, Anne Seymour gradually relaxed. She was relieved that such a volatile, narcissistic man could be tender in bed, and now every nerve in her body tingled. Never had she thought that she would respond physically the way she did to the ruler's caresses, and a pang of guilt surged through her because she enjoyed her adulterous lovemaking. _Forgive me, my husband… Edward!_

His thumb pushed against her jaw, drawing it down to his lips, and his tongue slid past them to stroke hers. This gentleness was unbelievable for the tyrannical Tudor king! Nonetheless, in a few minutes, it faded away, and wickedness took its place, his thrusts getting more chaotic, but his mistress welcomed the change. Their hearts raced as if they were at the edge of a cliff about to fall, losing themselves in a primitive mating, until waves of pleasure flooded them.

Without warning, the door opened, and light footsteps sounded nearby.

Then a desperate cry erupted from someone, "No!"

Through the salacious haze that had clouded her mind, Anne caught the sight of the queen in her peripheral vision. From the corner of his eye, Henry saw his wife as well, and as he turned his head to her, Jane's expression, warped with disgust and horror, came into view.

"God's blood!" The king pulled away from his paramour forthwith.

Her hand on her heavily pregnant belly, Jane stood near the door. "No!"

Frustration welled in him as he laced his hose. "Lady Hertford, you should leave."

Sitting on the table, Anne rearranged the folds of her skirt so as to cover her private parts. Throwing an alarmed glance at Jane, she distinguished rage making its way into her sister-in-law's eyes as they reddened. Anticipating the scandal happening between the spouses, she jumped from the desk, and a moment later, she was hallway across the room when the queen spoke.

"You are a filthy whore, Anne Stanhope," Jane roared like an infantryman going into battle with fixed bayonet. Then she charged at the woman and pummeled her with her hands.

A shaken Henry ran to them. "Jane, stop right now!"

"Whore!" Jane was full of anger mingled with anguish. "A traitor to your queen!"

As the queen kept hitting her, Anne just froze and remained quiet. Her consternation was so colossal that she did not feel any pain as Jane's nails dug into her face. As Henry grabbed his consort and twisted her arms behind her back, Edward's wife shuddered like a leaf in a wind.

"Lady Anne, leave!" the ruler enjoined irritably. "Get out!"

The Countess of Hertford ran away, as though demons of mortality were at her very heels.

Jane glared at Henry. "How could you sleep with her? How could you?"

He hissed, "Madame, I hate melodramatics caused by women."

"Oh, my Lord! Oh, my Lord!" the queen repeated over and over again, tears leaking from her eyes. "Oh, my Lord! No! No! No! Why are you so cruel to me?"

The king shook with fury. "Darling, enough," he half-begged, half-commanded.

"Why with my brother's wife?" Jane sobbed out the ire and hurt. His arm encircled her waist, but she wriggled in his hold. "I've accepted your many mistresses, but not her."

"Sweetheart!" he called her in a softer, adding in a persuasive tone, "Calm down!"

Wrath flared in her tearful eyes, but there was vulnerability behind it. "You betrayed me with countless harlots! Once you forced yourself upon me! But just when I'm carrying your child, I find you sleeping with my sister-in-law and not even in bed! This is betrayal of the worst kind!"

"Peace," beseeched Henry, now too concerned about his son in her womb. "Peace!"

Yet, his spouse wept harder. "Why do you need all those sluts? Why?"

"It is all right." He forced his voice to sound soft, stifling his outburst of ire with a huge effort. He caressed her large baby bump, the other hand supporting her. "Peace, Jane!"

His gaze slid off his wife to a window. The sun had begun descending towards its night home, tinging the sky with shades of mauve, orange, and red. Remembrances inundated him: a shocked Anne Boleyn who had walked in only to see Henry kissing Jane sitting in his lap, then a distressed Anne who had flown into a fit of rage after Jane had fled. _Such an odd coincidence… Anne found_ _Jane and me in the study at Hampton Court_ , the king recalled fearfully.

 _Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God, what is this? What is this? Just when my belly is doing its business, I find you wenching with Mistress Seymour._

Anne's hysteria boomed through Henry's skull like a death knell. Now Jane was saying nearly the same things as Anne had spoken on that tragic day hours before she had lost his son. Horror encased his consciousness in a block of ice, and the monarch's hand tightened around her waist, as if he were trying to convince his and Jane's child not to leave her womb.

The ruler wiped the tears from her face. "Sweetheart, let me walk you to your rooms."

Jane revealed to him her heartrending expression. "Why, Your Majesty?"

Despite his attempts to soothe her, the queen sobbed so grievously that an urgent train of thought set in his brain. Henry scooped Jane into his arms and rushed out. On the way to her apartments, he had no idea if she was conscious, as Jane made no sound, her body limp. Leaving his consort to her sister Dorothy's care, the king summoned Doctor Butts to examine her.

§§§

"God, please no!" Jane cried, her visage yellowy white. "I beg you not to take my baby!"

Resting on her bed, Queen Jane was moaning, writhing in agony and pressing her hands to her stomach. For a moment, she sat up in the bed, hoping that the cramps would subside, but a new torrent of blood trickled down between her legs. Depleted, she had no strength to fight.

The queen had started bleeding soon after the king had carried Jane to her rooms. A pall of gloom encompassed the apartments as agitated women moved back and forth. Jane's sisters, Elizabeth and Dorothy, sat by the queen's bed, holding her both hands. The white silk sheets were drenched with large crimson stains. Ladies brought bowls of fresh water and clean sheets.

Dorothy asked, "Can these pains just vanish into thin air?"

"Doctor Butts, the queen is about seven months gone with child. Can you stop the pains?" A mother herself, Elizabeth knew the answer, but she still asked.

Doctor Butts shook his head apologetically. "I'm very sorry, but I can do nothing for the queen. I'll call for a midwife who will attend to her during the delivery. It must be done urgently, before Her Majesty's condition worsens. I shall remain outside during the labor."

"Is it a miscarriage?" asked Dorothy, still confused. "Or premature labor?"

The medic nodded. "The latter. Soon Her Majesty will bring a child into the world."

Jane implored, "Save my child, Doctor Butts! For Heaven's sake!"

"God will protect Your Majesty," Doctor Butts muttered.

With a heavy heart, the physician walked out of the bedroom. Butts recalled the winter day when Queen Anne had lost _her savior_ , as the courtiers had labeled her lost son, after having encountered the monarch kissing Mistress Seymour. Now Queen Jane was going through the same ordeal, but Jane was further along in her pregnancy than Anne had been back then. Could Jane's baby be born strong and healthy? A despondent Butts did not believe that it was possible.

By the time a royal midwife arrived, Jane could not bear the agony any longer, and her whimpering converted into squeaking screams. Her entire world narrowed to pain, and the brief cessation of it when the contractions receded. Tunneling darkness overpowered her as she passed out twice, and the red lines flashed before her eyes as Jane saw her maids taking away the bloody sheets. The hours had elapsed, and then came the gush of sticky liquid between her thighs.

"Who is it?" Panic whitened Jane's countenance to a ghostly shade.

Crossing herself, the midwife swaddled someone into a blue cotton sheet embroidered with Tudor roses. Jane recognized the blanket for her baby, which she had sewn herself.

"Sister, please…" Dorothy dissolved into tears.

Elizabeth Cromwell looked stoic. "Tell Her Majesty everything." She had returned to court only ten days ago after the birth of her son with Gregory Cromwell – little Henry.

"It was a boy," the old woman affirmed. "The Almighty has taken him home."

"No," Jane dragged out the syllables. "That cannot be true." Her voice was weak.

"Take his remains away!" Elizabeth ordered. The midwife obeyed and left the room.

"Jane," Dorothy sobbed. "Your baby boy… He was born too early."

"Rubbish!" Elizabeth allowed her anger to escalate into a verbal outburst. "If only Jane had not reacted like a wench to what she saw in the study, she would not have been so distressed, and she would not have gone into labor so early." She lowered her voice to rebuke Jane further. "The king has the right to take as many mistresses as he desires, and you know that, Jane."

Dorothy pleaded, "Elizabeth, don't be so cruel!"

Tears deluged the queen's bosom. "Lizzy, sister, why do you loathe me so?"

Elizabeth's expression softened a little bit. "Jane, don't say nonsense." She released a sigh. "But you must understand that now your brothers and I have to think of ourselves."

Jane regarded both of her sisters with eyes that now seemed grayer than her matrimonial hell with the Tudor ruler had been. "I'm a prisoner of my wretched fate."

As Elizabeth walked away, Jane burst out weeping. After the death of her second child with the king, she could not keep her crown, but that did not hurt Jane as much as the abandonment of her by her relatives did. Dorothy, her noble sister, hugged Jane in a lingering, warm embrace, and they held onto each other until the unfortunate queen drifted into restless slumber.

"Take care of Her Majesty," Dorothy asked Lady Jane Boleyn. Then she walked out.

As she settled herself on the bed's edge, Lady Boleyn eyed the sleeping queen whom she pitied. Her mind was writhing in a storm of predictions who would be the monarch's next wife.

At the same time, Dorothy found Edward, Thomas, and Elizabeth Seymour in the queen's antechamber; they had dismissed the other ladies-in-waiting moments earlier. Sullen and stolid, they could think only of the loss of privileges as a consequence of the queen's new disaster.

Dorothy approached Edward, and her hand collided with his cheek. "You and your wife are scums! It is your entire fault that Jane went into premature labor today."

There was a metallic glint in Edward's eyes. "I'm sad that Jane lost _a prince again_. Anne and I will remain at court, while Jane and perhaps other Seymours will have to leave."

Thomas interposed, "Ned, will your wife vouch for Elizabeth and me to the king?"

"She will," promised Edward, "if it is possible."

His voice held an air of condescension that fired Dorothy's temper even hotter. "I hate you all! You are not human beings – you are hyenas! You are no longer my siblings!"

Thomas grouched, "Later you might regret your words, sister."

"You will all be damned," Dorothy barked before returning to the queen's bedroom.

§§§

Lady Bess Holland arrived at the Duke of Norfolk's quarters shortly after the end of the queen's labor. Having kissed her hand, Thomas Howard gestured towards an open doorway so that they could go to his private chamber, where they would not be eavesdropped upon.

"Has anyone seen you, Bess?" Norfolk questioned as he led her inside.

"No. Now everyone is in mourning, so nobody paid any attention to me."

The duke sniggered. "On the contrary, I'm in a spectacularly good mood."

His mistress felt guilty as she said quietly, "I am not happy with the queen's misfortunes. But I know that her disaster is useful for Queen Anne and Princess Elizabeth."

Inside the cozy private chamber, they saw the duke's eldest son – Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. The room was largely dark to make their meeting as clandestine as possible. A few tallow candles smoked and sputtered from wall sconces; a candelabrum burned on a marble table.

A grinning Surrey eased himself into a chair. "The Seymour wench has been defeated!"

"But not by us," Norfolk joined the conversation.

His son tipped his head. "Nature just ran its course. The seed of King Henry is too _weak_."

The duke and his mistress nodded. Then they seated themselves in front of the earl.

Norfolk asked, "Bess, have you learned something about the conspiracy against Anne?"

Nodding, Bess Holland climbed to her feet and glided to the exit. Having made sure that the door was securely closed, she returned to her chair. After extracting a paper from her pouch, she handed it to the duke, who scrutinized it impassively, but then he laughed gleefully.

"Father?" Surrey was itching to know more about the document.

Norfolk announced, "Nicholas Carew plotted Anne's death with Cromwell. I'm sure that Edward Seymour is also complicit in the plot, but it will be difficult to prove it."

Surrey rubbed his chin pensively. "I don't know him closely, but I believe he is the cleverest of the Seymour lot. The worst is that his harpy of a wife is the king's favored mistress, and His Majesty will not banish Edward from court after the annulment of his union with Jane."

Bess stared at the earl. "So, he is our enemy, but an almost untouchable one?"

"Only for now," Surrey stressed. "We will destroy them all."

"We shall," Norfolk promised. "Now we are still waiting for a signal from France."

"Why is King François silent?" his son wondered.

The duke shrugged. "His Majesty's spies must be endeavoring to figure out the identity of the Pope's new agent at the English court. Without knowing his identity, we cannot act because right now this person is our second worst enemy after that bastard Cromwell."

Surrey concluded, "We wait and ferret out as much secret information as we can."

Bess pledged, "I'll try to copy the correspondence of the Seymour brothers."

Her lover smiled at her. "I expect so."

The Earl of Surrey directed the discourse towards another pressing topic. "Can we ensure that one of the Howard girls marries the son-obsessed king?"

"I don't think so," Elizabeth asserted. "Lady Anne Bassett is with child."

"I've heard the same whispered at court," the Duke of Norfolk validated. "No doubt Lady Bassett will not give our sovereign a son, or if she does, I shall be very astonished. So far, we ought to align with Lady Honor Grenville, for we are cut from similar cloth of ambition."

Surrey was not so sure of that. "Well… questionable."

"Trust me, son," Norfolk assured. "I know this woman well enough."

"For one thing," Bess broke in. "Honor and her husband, Arthur Plantagenet, don't have a solid support among the nobility. They will need new allies, including the House of Howard."

"Indeed, my lady." In spite of his dislike of his father's mistress, Surrey could not help but admire her intelligence and her ability to get off with a whole skin as their spy.

Then they discussed the Howards' relationship with the Lisle family. Elizabeth chose a spiced red wine, poured three goblets, and passed two of them to the two men.

Surrey raised his toast. "To the prosperity of our great family!" The others echoed him.

The Duke of Norfolk pushed aside his goblet. "Bess, now go back, but be very careful."

His paramour stood up. "My lord, I'll never throw my caution to the wind."

Thomas Howard closed their meeting. "You will not be that Seymour wench's maid for long. Someone else, most likely Anne Bassett, will become your new queen."

"I'll always work on your behalf," Bess assured, and her lover grinned at her.

§§§

After midnight, Thomas Cromwell was summoned to the monarch's study. According to the gossip that had spread at court, it was the same room where Queen Jane had discovered her husband making love to her brother's wife. The councilor expected what his sovereign would ask him to do, given that the second rumor about Anne Bassett's condition seemed to be true.

"Cromwell!" King Henry beckoned the man to him. "You will solve my problem."

"I'm always at your disposal, sire." His chief minister stood in the center, his head bowed.

The monarch's footsteps were slow, heavy, and quite unsteady as he prodded over to his advisor. He peered at Cromwell with his bloodshot eyes, sticking of wine and sweat. His hair was in a disarray, his doublet was undone, and his shirt was hanging out of his hose.

"Dispose of that blonde, plain simpleton," the monarch decreed, his countenance contorted in abomination for his consort. "Jane's insides are as rotten as the worst sack of grain. Her barren womb is infected with leprosy or other illness. Or why all of her children die?"

Cromwell wondered how his liege lord wanted to proceed this time. "Should I contact Archbishop Cranmer to have your matrimony to Her Majesty annulled?"

"That leper woman murdered my boy!" The hot burn of furious tears ripped through the ruler's eyes. "Have our marriage declared null and void. Have her send to a nunnery if she agrees to terminate our damned bonds. Have her imprisoned if she does not consent."

It would not be prudent to have the woman arrested. "I think she will cooperate."

"She will if she is not dim-witted."

"Your Majesty and _Lady_ Jane are distant cousins. I believe that Archbishop Cranmer will be able to have your marriage annulled on the grounds of consanguinity."

"I don't care, Cromwell! I just want to get rid of her so that I can marry Anne Bassett!"

Cromwell made a bow. "It shall be done, Your Majesty." He then vacated the room.

The monarch drank himself into oblivion until dawn. An enormous weight of despair settled itself upon his shoulders. His earlier success as a king, who had once been viewed as a celebrated Renaissance ruler, had been grandiose, but the failures of his wives had demolished the edifice of his grand reign just because none of them had produced his male heir. _Now all my hopes rest on the pregnant Anne Bassett who will become my fourth queen,_ Henry bemoaned.

* * *

 _I hope you are all safe from Covid-19. I'm still staying in lockdown in Tuscany and cannot go home. My close friend, as well as my two young cousins died of complications caused by this dreadful virus. It is extremely important for all of us to be safe and careful!_

 _This chapter is dedicated to the victims of COVID-19. It is my way to remember them. Thank you for reading this dramatic chapter! Please let me know what you think._

 _Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, Duchess d'Étampes, has a one-night affair with Prince Charles, Duke d'Orléans. I expect that now you despise Anne for her seduction of him, but in later chapters you will understand why I need this unusual plotline._ _Anne de Pisseleu is now 30 years ago, Charles is 16._

 _Finally, Ferdinand von Habsburg, the emperor's brother, makes his appearance. Ferdinand, who really lives in luxury, and François face each other and talk, and François voices some truths to the jailed monarch. This situation is extraordinarily difficult for Ferdinand, who is quite different from Carlos, and Ferdinand will have to face many dilemmas and make controversial decisions in this AU. In real history, Ferdinand was extremely loyal to Carlos, but even Ferdinand's loyalty might crack, or it may not, depending on Carlos' future actions._

 _I have to say a big sorry to Anna Jagellonica, who was Queen of the Romans, Bohemia and Hungary; she is usually known as Anna of Bohemia and Hungary. In this AU, I killed her off during her husband's imprisonment in France because I need Ferdinand to be a free man. She was a wonderful Renaissance queen who presided over the Austrian court together with her husband until her death in 1547. According to historical sources, Ferdinand and Anna had a loving marriage, and there is no proof of his infidelities – so François' hints on a few cases of Ferdinand's marital infidelity are fictional. What do you think of my Ferdinand?_

 _Anna and Ferdinand had many children, but in this AU I changed their list for fictional purposes. In my timeline, they had: Elisabeth (1526), Maximilian (1527), Anna (1528), Ferdinand (1529), Maria (1531), Magdalena (1532), Catherine (1533), Eleanor (1534), Margaret (1536), Barbara (1537). As Ferdinand was captured in France in the autumn of 1536, I moved Barbara's birth from 1539 to 1537, so Anna of Bohemia was pregnant when Ferdinand and Carlos invaded France in 1536. Barbara was born during her father's captivity. As Anna is already dead as of 1538 in this AU, Ferdinand's other children whom he had in history will be born, but by another woman. Actually, Ferdinand will have even more offspring in this AU than he had in history._

 _Finally, Jane Seymour's drama took place. Some may say that Jane deserved her afflictions, but I hope that most of my readers feel sympathy for Jane. She lost her second child, which was predictable after she had found Henry and his mistress (Edward Seymour's wife) in the study. Why did I make this happen in such a way? Jane's drama happened in the same way Anne's drama unfolded in January 1536, when Anne suffered her second miscarriage. The scene of Jane finding Henry with her sister-in-law somewhat mirrors the scene of Anne discovering Jane with Henry. Jane's lost child was a boy, which makes Henry absolutely furious._

 _I added a scene between Edward and Anne Seymour to the next chapter as they discuss the tragedy. Now Edward seems heartless, but he is not a complete blackguard, despite being extremely calculative and ambitious, just as his wife is. But who wasn't calculative and cruel back then if they grappled for power? Anne Seymour herself is truly shocked._

 _Anne Bassett is pregnant! Do you think that it is Henry's child or the baby fathered by her lover Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter? In any case, Henry is desperate for a male heir and, hence, he is going to have his marriage to Jane annulled as soon as possible also that he can remarry Anne Bassett. Jane and Henry were distant cousins, so they did have a consanguineous union; actually, most of Henry's wives were somehow related to him._

 _The descriptions of Château d'Azay-le-Rideau located in the Loire Valley, as well as the information about it are historically correct. This château is very beautiful – google it!_

 _As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, FieryMaze, and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction._

 _Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!_

 _PS. I'll make an announcement about something that happened roughly a week ago. My old approach to communication is backfiring against me, and I must protect myself from hurt and harassment. But I will issue a note separately from this chapter in a few days._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	30. Chapter 29: Turmoil in France

**Chapter 29: Turmoil in France**

 ** _May 30, 1538, Leeds Castle, Kent, England_**

Long past midnight, the hallways were empty, for the courtiers were abed. Everyone was strained because today in the morning on the Feast of St Walstan of Bawburgh the wedding of King Henry and Lady Anne Bassett had taken place. The ceremony was modest and small; Lady Honor Grenville and the Duke of Suffolk had been witnesses. Archbishop Cranmer had quickly annulled the monarch's marriage to Lady Jane Seymour on the grounds of consanguinity.

Lady Jane Boleyn passed through the hallway, decorated with brightly colored wallpaper.

"Francis!" Jane cried as she met the eyes of her secret lover.

Francis Bryan stopped. "Be quiet if you want to keep our affair secret."

A smile curving her lips, the Viscountess Rochford examined Bryan. Although he wore an eyepatch to conceal his absent left eye, lost in a tournament at Greenwich years ago, Francis looked devastatingly male. Athletic, of rakish bearing and yet dignified in his treatment of ladies at court, his brown-haired head proudly raised, he had a steel strength of body and will. His velvet doublet and hose of the color murrey matched his fiery amorous temperament perfectly.

That licentious look in his eyes held Jane spellbound. "I've missed you."

His expression was that of a mating wolf. "Me or what I do to you in bed?"

"Does it matter if we can spend another few hours together?"

Bryan stepped forward and drew Jane against him, their bodies tensing with desire.

Jane felt his hand on her hair. "Why are you not sleeping so late?"

"As Queen Anne Bassett is pregnant, she cannot perform her conjugal duties. Our liege lord cannot live without a woman for a long time, so I had to invite one of his mistresses to his rooms. After he had dismissed her, he and I spent hours playing cards and drinking."

Jane rolled her eyes. "How many queens will the king have?"

"As many as necessary until he has at least one son to secure the succession."

"I do pity Jane Seymour," the Boleyn widow admitted. "She was very kind to me when I returned to court after George's execution. The child she had lost was her last chance."

Bryan's frown communicated his annoyance. "Don't you feel for my cousin Anne?"

Her gaze expressed bewilderment. "Her woes are over. Anne is the Queen of France!"

He pressed her to his chest. "You speak too much. Let's go to my rooms."

As they entered his apartments, Francis Bryan closed the door; his pages were already asleep. His spacious quarters were furnished with costly pieces of dark mahogany furniture and expensive Flemish arrases. He led Jane through the antechamber to his bedroom.

"Jane! As the former queen invited you back to court, now you might be exiled again."

Lady Rochford swatted him upon his clothed torso. "Will you help me return?"

With a lewd grin, Francis kissed Jane on the nose. "Anne Bassett dislikes you, so during her tenure as Henry's queen it will not be easy, but I shall do my best to have you back."

Her scrutiny traveled over his face to his neck. "You are my savior."

Bryan's lips were close to hers. "I'll miss your passion."

"Francis," she breathed. "I want you so!"

"George Boleyn was a gentleman with you, unlike me, right?" After hiking her skirts up, he shoved his leg between hers, forcing her thighs apart. "He had mistresses and must have known how to make a woman tremble in his embrace. Did he not see the potential in you?"

Jane stiffened. "George did not love me."

Bryan cocked an eyebrow. "You told me that you had not loved him either."

"I did not," she confirmed. "And I do not love you."

"Likewise. Yet, we are having such a wonderful time together."

From the edge of the cliff, Jane plunged into an abyss of remembrances. "George never loved a woman, yet his soul was full of romantic ideals. He wrote beautiful poems for his sisters, especially Anne, and for some of his paramours, sometimes for me. Throughout his short life, George sought the ideal lady of his dreams, persisting in this fruitless endeavor."

"So, he never found the perfect woman," Bryan finished.

Jane's heart ached at the thought of George's gruesome end, for a large part of her missed him. "My late husband was a dreamer, a thinker, and a speculative philosopher. He was unearthly and wondrous, despite his penchant for enjoying worldly things such as pleasures and luxury."

"I knew Lord Rochford from a different side, sweetheart."

His mistress inhaled sharply. "You and George often indulged in sins of the flesh. I'm aware that you two and your friends had parties in your quarters and brothels."

He smirked. "Yes, we did. George never said a bad word about you."

"I'm grateful to him for that. Let his soul rest in peace." She crossed herself.

"We shall prove George's innocence."

An errant tear trickled down her cheek. "Do that in his memory, Francis."

He wiped the moisture. "Jane, everything will be all right. François de Valois and Anne Boleyn want the same. Norfolk and I will do our best to ensure that justice is served."

A new interest enlivened her: their plans. "Tell me more!"

"Enough about them. On the bed, against the wall, or on the floor?"

"You mean?" Jane backed away to a bed with Tudor heraldic hangings.

Bryan was unlacing his hose. "Variety in poses gives a great deal of pleasure."

"The floor, then." She inhaled sharply as he pinched the skin above her neckline.

Bryan pulled his mistress down to the soft carpet, pushing her onto her back and kneeling between her legs. In the candlelight, her flushed face glowed rosy, her eyes dazed with lust. Their encounter was a concupiscent whirlwind: biting kisses, open-mouth and teeth-clashing, shrieks and possessive caresses, insanely frenzied thrusts, and at last the powerful pinnacle like a tornado. Then the clothes were stripped off, and the Saturnalia of dissipation continued on the bed.

 _I do not love Bryan, but he gives me such pleasure,_ Jane Boleyn groaned. Known for his countless wanton escapades, Bryan was an unprecedented genius of debauchery. He made love to Jane with the same radiant enthusiasm that he gave to his other many paramours, but she was not jealous. Some of the things Francis had done to her body were totally beyond the imagination even of a happily married French woman, but Jane welcomed them most eagerly.

Her matrimony with George had been tolerable, and some part of Jane had grown to love her dead husband over time. George had felt affection for her, but more out of necessity to be together than his natural inclination. Having been experienced in the art of amours, George had nevertheless been reserved with Jane during their _rare_ intimacies, having been respectful to his wife's proper habits. Thanks to Bryan, Jane learned that passion could be so overpowering.

"Can I write to Anne secretly?" Jane asked between her moans.

"I shall arrange it." Bryan drove deeper into her melting core.

 _I like teaching women to enjoy their bodies,_ Bryan smirked as he drove into her. Fondled by beauties from the age of twelve, he had been a virtuoso in intimate adventures before the time when most boys reach puberty. Despite his cynicism, he was capable of altruism, and could turn aside from the aristocracy to lavish his idolatry upon a peasant if he liked her a lot. Jane Boleyn was one of the numerous women whom he bedded, for his life was an endless dissipation.

§§§

The Hertford apartments were alive with quiet conversation. Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, paced the bedroom to and fro, his nervousness written all over his countenance. His wife, Anne, sat on a bed canopied with a decorative cornice and masses of asparagus velvet.

"Our plan backfired," fretted Edward as he walked the length of the room. "When our liege lord was entirely focused on Anne Bassett, I seduced her, though not with ease, in order to distract her from the king. Henry began visiting Jane's bed more often, and she conceived."

Anne expelled a sigh out. "I did what you wanted: I ensnared the king. It became easier to control his mind, and it was better to have me as his mistress during Jane's pregnancy."

Stopping in the middle, her husband said, "You did everything I asked. Thank you."

She sucked in a deep breath. "Our plan backfired due to the king's impatience in the study. If your sister had not seen us there, she would not have gone into premature labor."

"Don't feel guilty. Jane should have stayed in her rooms, but she didn't."

"Ned, His Majesty still desires me. He assured me that we would remain at court."

The monarch often invited Anne to his apartments. Tonight, on what was supposed to be the wedding night of King Henry and the former Lady Anne Bassett, the Countess of Hertford had spent several hours with the monarch, having pleasured him in all wicked ways. _I do not want to be Henry's mistress, but I must. For Edward and our future. Ned must build his political career._

"We still have the chance for power," Edward speculated in a snide tone. "It will be more difficult for me to gain further prominence, but at least I've kept all my offices."

"I'm glad my affair helped you," she uttered dryly.

He halted near the bed. "Didn't you consent to being a royal mistress willingly? I offered this plan, but you had the opportunity to refuse, Anne. I did not force you to do so."

At this moment, Anne Seymour looked like the most calculative creature he had ever seen. "I've always believed that Jane will not succeed where her predecessors failed. The Tudor seed is _weak_ or _defective_ , or perhaps our liege lord is cursed. I'll be very surprised if Anne Bassett gives birth to a healthy son. Therefore, I did my best to prevent our banishment from court."

Edward admired his wife. "What would I do without you?"

Her lips were twitching. "I feel guilty for accidentally causing your sister's miscarriage. I warned His Majesty that we should not have been in the study, but he did not listen."

"It is not your fault, Anne. As you said rightly, the king's seed is _defective_ , so Jane would have miscarried sooner or later, or she would have birthed a sickly child."

She nearly collapsed in relief. "I am most delighted that you don't blame me."

He raised an eyebrow. "Anne, are you using the herbs to prevent pregnancy?"

The shake of her head was the confirmation. "You will not have a bastard."

A pang of jealousy washed over Hertford. "I do not want to share you with anyone."

"Do you?" Anne's heart was beating with the hope that his cunning, cold man could feel for her something more than admiration and gratitude. "I'll do everything for you, Ned: England and our family need you to become powerful enough and contribute to the religious reform. You and I are together in this, Ned, but I must admit that I've missed you so terribly that–"

Anne didn't finish as Edward rushed to his wife, swept her into his arms, and plopped her onto the cushions on the bed. "You and I are cut from the same cloth, my crafty Nan."

She smiled at his peculiar endearment. "My Ned!" She cupped his face, pulling him up for a kiss. "After His Majesty dismisses me from his bed, for his infatuation with me will not last long given his fickleness, you and I will have a large family together."

"That would be so lovely." His eyes twinkled. "My goddess of charm and deceit!"

"My god of calculation!" She broke the kiss and asked with alarm, "Can Anne Bassett's baby be yours, husband? I heard that she is not more than one month alone in her pregnancy."

"It is impossible. I broke up with her in March. Moreover, I always pulled out, and she used necessary herbs. That Bassett harlot is expecting our sovereign's child."

Anne Seymour signed with relief. She did not want Edward to have any mistresses, and his liaison with Anne Bassett had hurt her more than she had anticipated. During the past months, the surges of longing for her husband were so strong that she felt dizzy. Edward and Anne had not married for love, but amorous sentiments were gradually growing in their hearts.

* * *

 ** _June 25, 1538, 1538, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France_**

Queen Anne huffed in annoyance as another card contest with Queen Marguerite of Navarre ended in her sister-in-law's victory. Since her husband's departure over three months ago, Anne's mood had been morose, tendrils of loneliness clutching around her being.

Now about seven months pregnant, Anne spent most of the time in bed. During her sister Mary's absence, Elizabeth Boleyn took care of her daughter while doting on her grandchildren, who all tarried at court. Maintaining correspondence with her brother, Marguerite of Navarre handled state affairs, conducting audiences and receptions for foreign dignitaries.

Outside, the summer day was hot, but with enough clouds in the blue sky to offer a break from the beaming sun. Anne rested on a canopied bed draped in blue velvet, with figured marble bedside tables on each side. Marguerite sat by the bed in an ornately carved chair. Decorated with Italian ornamentation, the oak furniture stressed the chamber's grandeur. The colorful frescoes of ancient heroes and paintings by Rosso Fiorentino adorned the walls and the ceiling.

"I've won again," Marguerite spoke. "You cannot concentrate, Anne."

Anne reclined onto the pillows. "My pregnancy deprived me of my talents in gambling."

After Anne's reconciliation with the king, friendship had blossomed between the queens.

"Or you have missed François so much that your thoughts always revert to him."

Anne responded in kind to her witty comments, in which there was a great deal of truth. "Or perhaps it is your beloved brother's fault that I'm in this situation! Here I am, a young woman in a silk nightgown and elegant diamond earrings, which he sent me last week as a gift. Here I am – bedridden and abandoned. And where is our Knight-King gallivanting now?"

A sudden cast of seriousness overcame Marguerite. "Anne, you are sulking because of your fear that François will not return before the labor. But he had to travel across the country and inspect how his viceroys govern provinces and whether they comply with his orders."

"I understand that." Anne inquired, "What is the result of his inspection?"

"Some governors abused their power. For example, the ex-governor of Languedoc not only took bribes from merchants, but also encouraged local nobles to exploit their peasants and tenants. In such provinces, the system of justice was perverted through many illegal acts."

"I hope he was arrested," Anne assumed. "Will he be tried and executed?"

"Yes, of course. It is mandatory to show the rest of the aristocracy that if the royal court has halved its expenses, they must do the same. All government officials must know that they have to obey their liege lord and have no right to rob the populace regardless of their class."

"They must know that the only source of power in France is her monarch."

Marguerite thought of their efforts aimed at reforms. "For years, François and I have worked hard to centralize the kingdom. Now his authority is uncontested, for he restricted the power of all local nobles. But there are still obstacles on the way to absolute monarchy."

Anne did not vocalize that Henry Tudor had achieved more in the state's centralization. After England's break with the Bishop of Rome, the country was independent from external forces, though isolated politically, and the English nobles all had to bow to their sovereign.

The Queen of France asked, "What about our state treasury?"

The Franco-Spanish war had damaged France's economy a lot. Food prices had increased because of the poor harvest last year, and because the Imperial soldiers had plundered many villages and towns. As numerous men had been killed at the beginning of the confrontation, many peasants had been recruited into the Valois royal army later and trained, but many had died heroes' deaths. Consequently, not enough men remained to cultivate land and grow food.

The state treasury was not empty thanks to the confiscation of gold from the Imperial camps. Next year the treasury would receive less than its usual annual income, because the folk would not have enough to pay taxes. At the same time, the Valois siblings planned to finance construction works in those towns that had been razed to the ground by the invaders, including the building of houses for the poor and for those who had lost their homes during the war.

The French court had cut its expenses significantly, despite the ruler's aim to maintain his court's magnificence. Queen Anne had announced the new policy to spend less on the royal family and the courtiers: in the presence of witnesses of her coronation, she had proclaimed the decision not to have costly pageants. Fearing her brother's erstwhile prodigality, Marguerite had taken the financial matters into her capable hands, but France would still need to borrow money.

"Although going to bankers might dilute a king's high standing, we may need to borrow."

The Queen of France opined, "France's monetary system is being hampered by out-of-date legislation. Reform it so that the market can grow internally over time. If this is attained, His Majesty will be able to borrow from within the nation as opposed to going abroad for loans."

"What would you make a starting point of internal financial modernization, Anne?"

"Reforming _the usury laws_ ," Anne claimed. "Bankers and usurers charge excessively high rates on loans, which made some Italian bankers such as the Medici family richer than duchies and even some countries. If we target those who follow this practice in France by setting caps on the maximum amount of interest that can be levied, usurious houses will not be able to earn fortunes. Moreover, usury is more than frowned upon from a religious perspective: it is considered a sin, and if we cultivate this belief in our subjects, it will be easier to accomplish our objectives."

"We are in agreement," pronounced Marguerite. "In the future we will be able to raise as many loans as necessary at home. It would be a useful practice: those who gave money to the state could be more easily controlled, and news of such loans would be restricted. Failure to offer a loan for France's national interests would be deemed unpatriotic and even treasonous. But where should we take the enormous amounts to pour them into the economy next year?"

Anne proposed, "Why not make Parliament enact the Extraordinary Act, according to which in months to come, the richest noble houses of France will have to contribute to the state treasury the special tax ironically called _"a patriotic donation"_ in the aftermath of the invasion? The Parliament would be delighted to empty some of the aristocrats' coffers, while the folk would rejoice that the bulk of the tax burden for the economy would fall onto the nobles."

The king's sister sighed. "This would make my brother more popular among the people. However, we must take into account that this would be a highly risky maneuver – antagonizing the nobility comes with the danger of them uniting against us and deposing our house."

Anne crossed herself, and so did Marguerite. They chorused, "God forbid."

However, Anne noted, "But this "patriotic tax" is not huge and is a one-time payment."

Marguerite pondered this. "I must discuss that with François. If this is done correctly, we may further limit the authority of the nobility, which is one of our main aims."

Anne joked, "I'm convinced that the House of Lorraine would be especially happy."

"Oh, they would be in paradise! That would curb the irritating pride of the Guises."

They laughed again and exchanged knowing glances.

The ruler's sister affirmed, "Soon you will help François and me govern the country."

"Gladly." However, Anne did not dare entertain fantasies that François would allow his consort to rule alongside him and his sister, despite the enlightened nature of his reign.

The Queen of France broached the subject that had long plagued her. "Margot, you know everything about your brother. Claude de Rohan-Gié was married off to Claude de Beauvilliers, Count de Saint-Aignan. Has she already given birth to my husband's bastard child?"

Marguerite's expression fell. "It _was_ my brother's daughter."

"A daughter?" Anne was relieved that it was not have a son. "Wait! Why 'was'?"

"The labor was complicated, and Claude birthed a stillborn girl."

"I am so sorry! However, François has not told me anything."

"Anne, you are pregnant. How can my brother apprise you of such things?"

The French queen nodded her comprehension. "Poor François and his baby girl!"

"My brother has been distraught in private, but he is stoic in public and with you."

Anne crossed herself. "May God rest the girl's soul in heaven."

Marguerite intoned, "May her innocence soul find peace."

Anne questioned, "When will you go to Navarre, Marguerite?"

King Henri of Navarre, Marguerite's husband, had departed to Bearn a month earlier. He had taken their daughter, Jeanne d'Albert, with him, although the girl usually lived at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye with the Valois children. His abrupt leaving had initiated gossip that he might have quarreled with his spouse or displeased King François. While Marguerite always refuted or laughed off such rumors, the nobles felt that something was wrong.

Memories swooped through Marguerite's mind like a dark tide. Their argument when Henri d'Albert had demanded again that his consort relocate to Navarre. Marguerite's attempts to explain that François needed her at his side, given that the emperor would definitely invade again eventually. Their last night together when the vehemence of their lovemaking had thrilled and excited them both, and the heartbreak Marguerite had felt after Henri's escape in the morning.

Marguerite had implored her husband to visit the French court far more often, but Henri was intransigent. She had suggested the possibility of monthly meetings in Toulouse or somewhere close to Navarre, grasping at her marital straws like a woman drowning in loneliness. Yet, it was the most fragile sort of straw – Henri only wanted his wife back in his kingdom. She still heard her spouse's retreating footsteps echoing down the corridor as Henri had stormed out.

"My husband and I did not part on good terms, but I shall not discuss anything." Although she kept her tone light, the twinkle in Marguerite's eyes dimmed.

"Ah." Anne's sense of tact stopped her from prying into her sister-in-law's personal life.

They chatted in a light vein until the Queen of France was depleted of strength. Later Anne had a dream, in which her husband returned to her. When she awoke at sunset, she could nearly feel François' scent fill her senses, feeding her urge to slip into his arms. Yet, the monarch would not arrive this week, so her spirits were descending deeper into a pit of nothingness.

* * *

 ** _July 30, 1538, 1538, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France_**

The sun was on its westward arc, and the sunset was sitting in the firmament as if to watch drowsing, verdant nature. A beam of fading light fell upon the Valois monarch, who sat on the edge of his consort's bed. Anne was fascinated with her handsome husband, who, though richly attired, looked tired with dark circles under his eyes after his tour through the provinces.

"Why are you so melancholic, wife?" inquired François with concern.

Anne frowned. "I'm bored with being in bed. At least, you have finally returned."

A faint hope glimmered in his eyes. "Have you missed me?"

François had arrived at Fontainebleau yesterday. Anne was delighted to have him by her side again, but in spite of the outburst of affection and appreciation from her during their reunion, her later behavior had been a disappointment to him. His Anne, who had greeted him heartily, had become uncomfortable the moment she had glimpsed his grin at her sister, who had come back to court with him, as though his spouse was jealous of his past affair with Mary.

Anne lapsed into a state of nervous flutter, wondering whether he had strayed during his absence. Her marriage to Henry did not let her forget about men's inconstancy. Now her piercing stare aimed to look into François' inmost soul, where lay, so carefully hidden, his love for her.

"What is wrong?" His entire attention was fixed upon his consort.

She quizzed forthrightly, "Did you have any lovers while you were away?"

The monarch gathered his consort's hands in his. "I've not touched another woman since I pledged to be faithful to you." He kissed them ardently. "Thank you, Anne."

His wife was relieved with his reassurance. "For what, François?"

Cupping her face, he peered deep into her eyes. "Everything beautiful, intriguing, artistic, and inspiring in my world is there because of you. I was with my mistresses at the beginning of our marriage, but the truth is that since you came to France, I've been attracted to you. Now all I see is you! You have dazzled me by the thousand lovely colors of a new life."

She curled her arms around his neck. "Forgive me for not being a wife to you at the start."

The ruler's impish grin mirrored hers. "You are granted a royal pardon because you have been a wonderful queen to me since last summer." He bent his head down and kissed her enlarged stomach. "Is this babe not a sufficient proof of your eagerness to be with me?"

"You are too full of yourself. But your flamboyant arrogance gives you a naughty charm."

"And your wit makes you absolutely irresistible!"

The monarch crushed his mouth into hers, and she probed her tongue inside. The kiss lasted for minutes, but it seemed like days and nights, their yearning for one another overpowering. Although they had made love until the fifth month of Anne's pregnancy when François had been as gentle as never before, now they could not proceed further so as not to harm the child.

Pulling away, the king regarded her. "Do you want a boy or a girl?"

The queen's eyes reflected her most cherished wish. "A boy."

A furrow formed between his brows. "You need my son to hurt Henry."

She put a finger to his lips. "I do, but not only for that."

He removed it from his mouth while holding her hands. "Then prove it to me."

His spouse sighed. "How?"

Pressing featherlight kisses onto her fingertips, he suggested, "Let's be monarchs, allies, friends, and lovers. Let us be inseparable by the spirit of our marriage."

Anne gifted him a brilliant smile. "That is my desire too, sire."

"I'll take you at your word, Madame."

It dawned on the queen, like the sun beginning to peak over the horizon, that her affection for François created the gardens of felicitous life in her barren universe. Their vibrant blossoms, sweet scents, crisping birds, and the green lawns of joy made her world tinged with bright colors. _It will be better for François and me to pass through our lives together until the night of age draws on, the sleep of death overtaking us. Can we really grow old together in happiness?_

She joked, "Woman's function in this world is to spur men on to high and noble actions. May the Knight-King become nobler or not? What would you say to that?"

"More chivalrous than Lancelot?" he mimicked her tone. "That I can achieve."

"Husband, please remember Sophocles' tragedy _'Women of Trachis'_. Deianeira, the wife of Heracles, was distraught that her husband was often involved in some adventure. Worried by bad prophesies about his fate, she sent their son, Hyllus, to find him. Soon Heracles came home to Trachis with victory. Yet, later Deianeira learned that Heracles had besieged the city of Oechalia only to obtain Iole, whom he took as a lover. I'm afraid that you might do anything like that."

François silently cursed his English rival and even himself for his amatory escapades. "Do not poison your own mind, Anne. I shall not follow in Henry's footsteps."

Anne doubted it while dreaming of contentment with him. The ruler could have any woman he craved! Why should François be faithful to her during her pregnancies and his absences?

§§§

In half an hour, Mary Stafford brought Princess Louise to the royal parents.

As the girl slept in her mother's arms while Anne sang a lullaby to her, François promised himself that he would erect the castle of their marital contentment in lieu of his wife's brokenness. _Can Anne fall for me? I pray that her faith in love will be restored in the atmosphere of happiness._

"I love our daughter." François deposited a soft kiss on the infant's forehead.

Anne stroked the baby's short, silky, chestnut hair. "I love her too. With all my heart."

"You will not like tidings from England."

A tingle of apprehension went through her. "What?"

"You are already aware that His _fickle_ Tudor Majesty married the Lady Anne Bassett. An overjoyed Henry claims that she will birth his son, who will usher the country into a Golden Age. He commissioned Hans Holbein to create numerous miniatures and to paint his _fourth_ wife as the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus. After the annulment of their marriage, Lady Jane Seymour returned to Wulfhall, but she was recalled back to court by Queen Anne on Henry's orders."

Anne thought of recent dramatic events in England. She had quite literally lost the power of speech while reading the letter from Antoine de Castelnau, the French ambassador to England. The diplomat had enlightened François that the _former_ Queen Jane Seymour had seen King Henry not kissing, but _tupping_ his new mistress in his study in the daytime. The woman had turned out to be not even Anne Bassett, but Edward Seymour's spouse – the Countess of Hertford.

 _The same happened to me, but Jane's discovery was far worse,_ Anne ruminated. This scene must have been similar to the one when she had found Henry kissing her former rival. Afterwards, a distressed Jane had been delivered of a stillborn boy. The monarch had compelled his wife to sign the annulment papers in several days after the tragedy, and then Henry had hastily married the former Lady Bassett in the same palace where Jane had been weeping day and night.

"Ah, Henry has surpassed me on this occasion!" the King of France had been heard to say in front of his courtiers. "Riding his queen's sister-in-law in broad daylight in a public place! I had an adventurous life in the past, but I never dared show off my carnal entertainments in such a scandalous fashion. To think that the King of England refers to me as a libertine… Henry is the most eccentric womanizer in royal history, as well as a brutal tyrant to his wives."

François' frivolous tirade had irked Anne. In privacy, she had reprimanded her husband, "I do not wish to hear anything about your amours!" He had only laughed in response.

Pity towards Jane rushed through Anne. Neither she nor Jane had escaped the lethal bondage of their matrimonies with Henry before irreversible damage had been done to their minds and lives. Nonetheless, Anne reveled in the banishment of Jane's family from court, save Edward Seymour and his family. _Henry has been cruel to Jane, but not as horrendously cruel as he treated me_. _Jane was not arrested on false charges, and her relatives were not executed._

"Queen Anne Bassett," Anne uttered after a long pause. "It sounds foreign to me."

"I'm certain that Henry married his paramour only because she got pregnant."

"And what about my estranged daughter?"

"As for Elizabeth–" François abruptly lapsed into silence.

"Tell me!" She grabbed his hand in impatience.

He spoke reluctantly. "Henry banished your Lizzy from court. Now she is at Hatfield with her governesses. You should write to your friend, the Lady Margery Wentworth."

A rush of panic seized her. "Did he disinherit my daughter?"

"No. Henry must be keeping the girl _his heir in accordance with the English laws_ because he cannot leave the succession uncertain." His expression apologetic, François added, "Whether you like it or not – even if Henry declared otherwise, no court in Europe, including ours, would believe that Lizzy is legitimate. The problem of legitimacy might dog her in the future."

Anne knew that her husband had said that not to hurt her – it was the truth. "Yes."

The king uttered cautiously, "But you know what might happen if Anne Bassett gives Henry a son. You must be prepared, Anne. Pray that Henry will not declare Lizzy a bastard."

"I hate Henry wholeheartedly!" her voice, sodden with disgust towards her ex-husband, boomed. "François, you told me that you would help me prove my innocence and punish Henry." She swallowed convulsively and demanded, "Why are you still waiting?"

Her spouse looked pensive. "So far my spies have failed to ascertain who the Pope's main agent in England is now. I'll speak to Cardinal de Tournon again." The cardinal, who acted as France's foreign minister, controlled the country's spy networks at various courts.

"You can do something now, can't you?"

"Use your imagination, Anne. Our allies at the Tudor court may start acting very soon. In fact, in a week or so because it takes us from seven to ten days to deliver our codified messages to them. But what if they were hindered by the Pope's secret agent and assassin, who replaced William Brereton? What if one of them is killed by that invisible enemy?"

His wife knew that the monarch was correct. Acting precipitately would be the stupidest strategy they could have deployed. When François had informed his wife that Pope Paul III had sent Brereton to England so as to get rid of her, Anne had been angry with her husband for keeping the truth from her for over a year. It horrified Anne that Brereton had testified against her during Cromwell's investigation just because that religious fanatic had craved to spill her blood.

At present, they had to be exceedingly careful, or their plans would be derailed. The Pope would not refrain from his attempts to have England restored to the flock of Rome, so his agents at the Tudor court were dangerous. Now they had to take a vicious swipe at a stronger foe than Brereton. _I want an aggressive action on our part, but we must wait,_ the queen convinced herself.

"Stay calm, Anne," admonished the monarch. "For the sake of our child."

"I shall try." Within her, the baby turned, and her hand went to her belly.

"You ought to rest. You will be able to see Louise later tonight."

Her husband took the girl from her arms. As François stood up from the bed, she felt so lonely, hankering that the hours of his absence would elapse as rapidly as possible. Amazed with her sensations, Anne craved his touch of warmth and mirth, of gentleness and passion.

§§§

When Anne awoke, it was nearly dark in the bedchamber. For a short while, she lay in complete silence, bewildered why none of her ladies-in-waiting was there; they did not leave her alone because of her approaching labor. Her maids ought to lit candles to fend off the darkness.

Her daughter's cry shattered the stillness. "Why is my Louise not in the nursery?"

"Argh!" The infant needed attention.

An agitated Anne shifted on the bed. "Lady Mother and Mary, are you here?" she called for her relatives who had visited her between the king's departure and her falling asleep.

There was no answer, but then the infant resumed crying. Anger speared through Anne: how could her mother, her sister, and her ladies abandon not only their queen in her condition, but also the little princess who would obviously need to be fed and perhaps re-swaddled soon?

Her daughter lapsed into silence, but no one reacted to Anne's demands to come.

With effort, the irritated queen climbed out of bed. Anne threaded across the room to the crib, her heavy belly restricting her mobility, her movements slow and awkward.

As Anne lifted her baby girl, the infant stared at the queen with her tender blue eyes. Louise was now babbling something in her childish language with an occasional scream, and as the child's gaze locked with her mother's, a toothless grin graced her tiny, perfect features.

"My dear girl," the queen almost sang as she cradled the child gently. "I'm sorry, my own heart, that you have to wait for your milk. Where is everyone?"

Rocked in her mother's arms, Louise was now sniffling quietly.

An incensed Anne affirmed, "Madame de Châteaubriant! Madame d'Angoulême! Madame de Chabot! Mademoiselles de Bourbon! Others! Where on earth have you all vanished? I'll see you all flayed alive for your gross negligence towards your queen and His Majesty's daughter!"

Nevertheless, the chamber met her with no reaction to her threats. Stillness, full of ghastly premonition, reigned until the girl's wails renewed, now interspersed by short pauses.

The baby's wails were growing frantic. With a frustrated cry of her own, Anne resolved to go find help in the antechamber, where her ladies traditionally assembled. Rocking the child, Anne plodded over to the door, every step heavy, every breath labored. When the queen exited into the antechamber, added to her torturing anxieties, was the fear that she could stumble and fall.

"I'll take care of you, my darling," she cooed to the starving infant.

Few candles illumined the area. In the semidarkness, Anne distinguished a woman, short in stature, who was attired in a black and gray damask gown trimmed with red lace on the sleeves; her matching cap was ornamented with diamonds. Her profile was turned to Anne, with its delicate line of brow and nose, and its gracious curves of the mouth and chin. She was absolutely stunning in an icy way. But as their eyes met, the inexplicable hardness in her gaze unnerved Anne.

"Baroness de Montmorency!" It was astounding to see the Constable of France's wife in the royal apartments, for the woman did not serve in her household.

Daughter of René de Savoy, the King of France's maternal uncle, Madeleine de Savoy had married Anne, Baron de Montmorency, in 1526. Queen Anne had seen her at court before, but they had rarely spoken. The woman was an austere Catholic with a profound dislike of Protestants, and the queen had deliberately tried not to encounter her due to their religious differences.

Madeleine ground out, "It is providence that you have arrived here on your own."

"Louise, hush!" Anne crooned to the infant. "Madame, pick her up! Then find my ladies so that they can take my daughter to her wet-nurse. I need to lie down."

Unexpectedly, Madeleine hissed, "You and your hellspawn will go nowhere."

At this, Anne shifted her scrutiny to her. "How dare you talk to me so?"

Madeleine's expression contorted in abhorrence. "You are a villainous whore! Even the awful fires of hell will not purge your soul because you are Satan incarnate."

Fright froze the queen to the spot. "That is absurd!"

Madeleine stepped forward. "You, your unborn child, and your accursed daughter are all doomed! No heretic is fit for the French throne! It is the Lord's will that you will die today!"

Anne's heart palpitated in anguish. When François would discover his consort and their children dead, arrows of indescribable bereavement would strike him. All at once, a sense of her duty to survive for the sake of their happy marital future inundated her like a celestial blessing.

"We may be interrupted." Anne pressed her now oddly silent daughter to herself.

Madeleine extracted a dagger from a pocket of her gown. "You can scream as much as you want, you Boleyn Jezebel. No one will hear you, and nobody will come."

The queen turned her head towards the door that led to the dressing room. Her blood ran cold as she spotted the queen's guards, whose bodies lay like annihilated monsters, arteries sticking out like bloodied ropes after a prisoner's torture. And that putrid smell… It could come only from recently slaughtered animals – no, from the murdered sentinels, whose corpses must still be warm because the blood in the pools beneath their forms were thickening but not yet dried.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" the shocked Queen of France whispered.

Madeleine's hands caressed the blade as she strode across the antechamber. "No, not me. Your wanton Majesty has many adversaries dreaming of your death."

Anne emphasized, "A good Christian cannot kill a pregnant woman and a baby."

Madeleine sniggered like a demoness. "What a fabulous weapon it is, although you do not deserve being sent to the underworld with a bejeweled dagger – you should be burned as a heretic. His Holiness will consecrate this weapon later; he will rejoice in your passing."

The queen looked from the infant in her arms to the weapon, then gazed off into the semi-dark recesses of the chamber for a brief moment. The bodies of her several ladies littered the floor at the room's other side, the sickening smell of blood blanketing the air in a choking aroma.

Madeleine stopped in front of the queen, who backed away into the corner. "We had to kill those who did not drink the wine with sleeping draught and did not fall asleep."

"My sister and mother…" A horrified Anne trailed off.

"They are alive. We do not need them dead."

"That does put quite the spin on things, then," jested the queen in a controlled voice that, however, quivered like a leaf in a storm. "You have hatched an awesome plot against me."

Madeleine wished to eradicate all evangelicals and Protestants, Anne in particular. "We have always had spies in your entourage. I am honored to play the tiniest role in breeding the temporary chaos in France, which will follow today's events. The chaos that will destroy your spell over our great country, as well as our sovereign, whom your diabolical wiles seduced into marrying you. Today, on the Feast of St Abdon and Sennen, we will have a glorious purging of France, the House of Valois, and my countrymen through the sacred, cleansing bloodshed."

Now, when her adversary had gotten into the substance of the matter, Anne's disdain towards popery, which she had contained since her arrival in France, erupted from her in a rampant torrent. "You are a mad and radical Catholic! Martin Luther and John Calvin are right that the Catholic prelates are emissaries of the devil. The Pope, who has sanctioned the assassination of an anointed and pregnant queen, is the main 'whore of Babylon'. You are all beasts!"

"Go to the devil, your master," the sibilant voice of Montmorency's wife resonated.

Anne's temper had goaded her into voicing her real opinion of Catholics. Madeleine's words must have been the penultimate ones before her religious insanity torched the edifice of the queen's life to the ground. _I might never see François again! I've failed to protect our children!_ Anne agonized silently from the horror of knowing that her marriage would end in this tragedy.

From the corner of her eye, Anne noticed Madeleine lurch forward in her direction. A flash of silver near her alerted her to the impending peril. At this moment, Louise finally emerged out of her tacit trance and began wailing at the top of her lungs. However, before their foe could act, a sinewy figure materialized from the shadows and sprang directly at Madeleine's back.

"I shall stop you," Prince Charles growled. "My father will deal with you, then!"

Madeleine de Savoy shrieked in fury when Charles knocked the dagger out of her hands. She whimpered as he smacked her head into the fireplace adorned with salamanders.

Charles addressed his stepmother. "You are safe, Your Majesty!"

Suddenly, something flashed in Anne's peripheral vision. Before she could warn her stepson of the danger, Madeleine bounced to her feet, snarling like a harpy, and then plunged the knife deeply into the young man's chest until he gurgled with blood and tumbled to the floor.

"You… you…" a shaken Anne stammered. "You have killed Prince Charles!"

At first, Madeleine was nonplussed. "By accident."

Little Louise commenced crying in the most dolorific accents, as if an invisible musician were performing the tunes of the Lamentation of Christ. _Perhaps my girl is weeping for her heroic brother, who died saving us,_ Anne mused with doleful admiration. _God, Charles was so young!_

The queen's eyes glistened with tears. "Nothing can ever wash away the stains of the evil deed you have just perpetrated. You are a soulless sinner, unworthy of anything good."

§§§

"Pardon the interruption," a male voice interjected sardonically. "Such lectures from the fake queen! So heavily pregnant, Madame! Carrying another product of your lusts?"

Anne's condemning gaze flew to _them_. "You three cannot be France's enemies!"

"Of course not." Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, emerged at the doorway. "We are all defenders of Catholicism! Our mission is to save France from heresy, if our own sovereign does not care that his soul will be burning in hell in the afterlife for marrying a Lutheran."

The duke's two brothers trailed after him, their countenances warped by enmity.

Jean, Cardinal de Lorraine, stated, "France must be free from heretics."

"We cannot have a Protestant queen on the throne," continued Louis, Count de Vaudémont and the youngest among the Lorraine brothers. "It goes against God!"

Anne's scorn for Catholics resurfaced. "Is it not blasphemous to murder your lawful queen and the royal children?" She was cradling the princess, who was now beginning to fuss.

"I've organized everything." Cardinal François de Tournon strolled into the chamber. "Why is Your Majesty so pale? You are amazed that I'm yearning to rid France of heresy?"

Horror whitened Anne's visage. "You… you cannot be a traitor!"

Tournon stalked over to her. The queen stepped back, and the baby wailed more loudly.

"Save your breath." The hostile flame in the cardinal's eyes was like that of inquisitorial fire. "We are all fighting for the true faith! No act purifying my country is unholy."

Anne muttered, "You administered my wedding ceremony with François."

"I did, but with a heavy heart," Tournon barked. "At the time, there was no other choice to save my homeland from the Habsburg invaders. I did not suspect back then that His Majesty would be under your thumb. You have seduced him with your witchery!"

Their victim stoically defied them with her head held high and her chin jutting forward in defiance. She testified condescendingly, "You are all lunatic Catholics who are ruled by the insane Pope! Mark my words: even if you destroy us all now, François will discover your treachery and punish you for your crimes, and there will be no mercy for all of you, then."

"I do not give a damn about your fates," underscored Tournon. Yet, sadness tinctured his gaze that shifted to the deceased prince. "I liked His Highness. But if his death is necessary for the absolution of his father's sins for marrying a heretic, then so be it."

Madeleine shouted, "The devil will be here as long as they breathe!"

"Shhh, my love." Anne feasted small kisses onto the distressed baby's cheeks.

"Silence that child!" Guise commanded, "Go finish that Boleyn she-devil!"

As Lorraine and Vaudémont stomped towards Anne, she stood in a defensive pose. The baby's wails were now reaching a crescendo of pique. Then, just as Vaudémont advanced on her with a sword, there was a loud crash of splintering wood as he was thrown into a nearby table.

As Anne clutched her baby tighter, she spotted François and his advisors in the room.

Ire-induced adrenaline rushing through him, the King of France unsheathed his poniard. "Safeguard my wife!" He pressed the blade to Vaudémont's throat.

Grabbing Tournon, Anne de Montmorency pummeled him with a series of blows into the stomach. Philippe de Chabot dragged Lorraine away from the queen. Claude d'Annebault rushed to Anne and a crying Louise to protect them. Anne gazed back and forth between various people, fright glowing in her pupils, but she remained composed, which impressed the king's men a lot.

"Finish it," screeched Guise. "Fulfill a holy mission! Murder the king too!"

The monarch shot him a fulminating glare. "I shall destroy you myself!"

Snarling, Guise lunged at his sovereign with his sword, aiming at the monarch's throat. Nevertheless, François was faster and knocked Claude's hand away before he could make contact. The ruler swung forward, this time slicing his opponent's right arm, but still could not dislodge his weapon. Warm liquid spread down Guise's arm, yet he kept fighting for what now he believed was right – the death of his liege lord who had stopped the punishment of the heretical queen.

Guise had shouted not only to his brothers, but also to their conspirator – Madeline, who stood at a distance. She tiptoed towards the ruler, whereupon Montmorency went to his liege lord's rescue, leaving a newly arrived Jean de Rambures, Count de Dammartin, to watch Tournon. Her husband's fist crashed into her face the very moment Madeline lifted the dagger to deliver the fatal blow from the back, sending her sailing through the air and landing onto the floor.

"I'm ashamed of being married to you, Madeleine," Montmorency spat.

"Stab me!" Her gaze wild, his wife appeared beyond reasonable thought.

"You shall be arrested!" He was perplexed that she was capable of such atrocities.

Madeleine lost the last vestiges of her sanity. "No, better to dispose of the king!"

All of a sudden, the woman bounced to her feet and pounced at the ruler from the back. Without thinking, Montmorency rained down a fierce blow, directed at her right wrist. Her dagger clattered to the floor, while Madeleine fell to her knees, clutching her wounded limb.

"It is over!" Annebault announced. "The queen is unscathed!"

A multitude of royal guards hastened into the room and surrounded the king. In the next moment, Marguerite of Navarre and Mary Stafford darted inside with cries of horror.

"Sister!" Mary shrilled as she ran to Anne, who was supported by Annebault.

Marguerite took the baby Louise into her arms. "My dear niece, no one shall harm you!"

In light of the escalating commotion, the Duke de Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine fled into the corridor. They deserted their third brother, Louis, and their ally – Tournon.

The ruler turned to a terrified Vaudémont, who struggled to break free of Chabot's grip. "Capture Guise and Lorraine, who have both betrayed their country. Take the other two traitors away and put them to the rack so as to learn everything about the conspiracy."

"As Your Majesty commands," the king's men chorused.

François shifted his gaze to the cardinal. "Tournon! You shall regret that you were born!" He no longer addressed the man 'Your Eminence'; his voice was like a snake's hissing.

"I'll give them a sweet reception in the dungeons," pledged Dammartin.

The soldiers escorted Tournon, Madeleine, and Vaudémont out of the room.

The gruesome picture of the lifeless Prince Charles caused arctic tentacles of dread to creep along the king's spine. Shaking his head in consternation, François looked at his councilors in turn and discerned the same feeling of immense sorrow in their eyes. A glimmer of utter terror and guilt that they had failed to save the youth – an innocent victim of the Catholic faction.

"God bless the prince's gentle soul," Chabot said, and the nobles echoed.

Paler than a ghost, François crossed himself, but said nothing. The others followed suit.

A jolt of pain surged through Anne's abdomen. Groaning and clutching at her stomach, she whimpered, "Argh!" If Mary did not support the queen, she would have fallen.

"My goodness!" Mary exclaimed. "The queen is in labor! Fetch the midwife!"

Galvanized into action, the ruler sprinted to his wife. "Summon Doctor Fernel!"

Marguerite folded her arms around the sniveling child. "I'll take care of the princess."

As François carried his consort into the bedroom, Anne felt that her waters had broken, and she pressed her legs together in a useless attempt to stop the labor that would occur a month prematurely. As Anne was placed onto the bed, she felt nothing but the unbearable sensations in her abdomen until the worried amber eyes of her spouse, who settled himself on the bed and leaned over her, came into her view as they awaited the midwife and the doctor.

"Everything will be fine." Tides of perturbation coursed through François.

The instant her husband had said that the mayhem dissipated in Anne's world. She felt as if she were in a nearly blindingly white room, where she felt protected. She smiled at the king, and this feeling solidified into confidence. _I am safe with François,_ Anne murmured wordlessly as Doctor Fernel entered and hurried to her bed, before darkness swallowed her and all went black.

* * *

 _Hello, my dear readers! This chapter is dedicated to the victims of COVID-19, just as the previous one was. Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think._

 _After the annulment of his marriage to Jane Seymour, King Henry married Lady Anne Bassett on the 30th of May 1538. I made Jane lose her second child on the 19th of May on purpose, for the sake of poetical and ironic justice, but I feel ashamed for that. Henry married the former Lady Bassett on the same day when he wed Jane in history._

 _Finally, we have the POV of Edward and Anne Seymour. Their plan backfired against them. They are not entirely cold-hearted, and Anne feels guilty for Jane's tragedy. Although Edward and Anne did not marry for love, their feelings for each other are growing. Anne does not want to be the king's mistress, but only her affair with Henry precludes them from being banished._

 _Jane Seymour returned to Wulfhall, but then she was recalled back to court by the new queen on Henry's orders. Later you will learn why Henry wants Jane to stay at court – he has plans for her._

 _Queen Marguerite and Queen Anne are now close friends. Their discussion shows that France's economy was battered by the invasion. Anne makes suggestions, which are appreciated by Margot. Finally, François returns from his tour through the provinces of France together with Mary Stafford and Montmorency. Anne missed her husband, and they are getting closer, so those who wanted to see sweet moments between the King and Queen of France should be pleased._

 _We learn about Anne's and François' reaction to the recent happenings in England. Anne is worried about Elizabeth's legitimacy. No, Bess will not be disinherited by her father. Don't worry: she will become Queen of England in 1558. I hope François' frivolous tirade about Henry's behavior spoken in public made you smile: my magnificent friend EvilFluffyBiteyThing, who helps editing this work, modified it slightly, using the word "riding", and she also added "tupping" in the description of Henry's actions with Anne Seymour. The historical François would definitely have said something like that in public._

 _Finally, the French radical Catholics make an attempt on the life of the Protestant Queen Anne. The Lorraine brothers in conspiracy with Cardinal François de Tournon (what a surprise for you!) killed the queen's guards and some of her ladies so that they can dispose of Anne, little Louise, and Anne's unborn child. Montmorency's wife – Madeleine de Savoy – is one of the conspirators. Anne is brave during her conversation with Madeline and later with the other conspirators. The queen and the children are saved, but Prince Charles is murdered._

 _Prince Charles was doomed to die in this AU, although I liked him a lot. In history, he had a stupid death, but I gave him a hero's death. In 1545, on the way to Boulogne besieged by the English, Dauphin Henri and Prince Charles came across houses empty because of plague. Charles is known to have said, "No son of a King of France ever died of plague", and then he, laughing, started a pillow fight with some of his companions. Later that evening, Charles fell ill and then passed away. In this AU Charles will always be remembered as a hero. His short liaison with Anne de Pisseleu is very important, and soon you will learn why it is so._

 _Anne has gone into labor. Will her child survive? Whom will she have? Anne has an unconventional childbearing arc in this AU, which does not mean that she will never have a son. Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, and Cardinal Jean de Lorraine are now on the run._

 _As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, FieryMaze, and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. I also recommend a gorgeous one-shot 'An Enchanting Dance in Calais' by Countess of Sherwood about Anne, Henry, and François._

 _Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!_

 _PS. I've been so pre-occupied that I'm still in the process of issuing an important note for everyone. The cases of severe harassment and plagiarism must be precluded and stopped. As soon as I have more time within the next two weeks, I shall write this courteous note._


	31. Chapter 30: France's Beloved Girl

**Chapter 30: France's Beloved Girl**

 ** _July 31, 1538, 1538, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France_**

"I'm so sorry," Queen Anne muttered as her husband eased himself into a chair by her bed.

King François watched his wife cradle their newborn _daughter_. Since he had come to her bedchamber several minutes ago, she had avoided looking at him. Apprehension was etched into her features, which bore traces of fatigue after her labor that had lasted the whole night and half of the next day. It was now mid-afternoon, and it was sweltering, so the windows were left ajar.

Caused by the experienced terror, Anne's delivery had been a little premature and long, but without complications. François and Anne's _second daughter_ had come into the world less than an hour ago. The child had been cleaned and swaddled; Lady Mary Stafford and the queen's ladies had assisted Anne in changing into a clean nightgown. Then the monarch, looking as if he had not slept in a long time, had appeared in his spouse's rooms and dismissed everyone.

"Anne," the monarch addressed her. "Look at me."

Veering her gaze to him, she repeated, "I'm so sorry."

"For what, wife?" His voice sounded like a caress. "For giving me a beautiful daughter?"

"Yes! I cannot give you a son, François! I have not delivered of a son in my both marriages! I'm cursed to birth only girls!" Her answer expressed all of her deep-seated frustration.

"I told you that I do not care about our child's gender. Don't you remember that?"

His gaze flicked to the baby girl who had dozed off in her mother's arms. François smiled faintly, but his smile vanished as yesterday's events blazed through his head. Infinite anguish, borne out of his son's death and of Anne's own despair, was tearing at the Valois ruler like a living being that dug its claws into his body and soul. _Will Anne never believe me? Will she always think that I am like Henry? Why does she not understand that I am happy to have another child?_

Sniffling, the queen shook her head. "I've produced _three_ princesses, but they are _only girls_. No king needs a wife who fails in her duty to bear him a male heir. I've failed _three times_!"

"It matters not, Anne," he made another attempt at persuasion. "It is the Lord's will that we have a bonny, healthy baby girl. Any child is blessing from God, irrespective of its gender. I love our girl as much as I love our first princess, Louise, and my daughter with Claude – Margot."

"We need a son." She swallowed, trying to get a hold of herself again, but failing.

François was beginning to lose patience. "Stop it, Anne. I am not Henry! Claude had given me two daughters before she birthed our first son, and I never berated her for that."

"Marguerite told me that." Her eyes were watery, but the tears did not spill over. "I swear that I wanted to give you a son not only because I crave to extract revenge upon Henry."

He growled, "It is still the main reason for your determined yearning for a son, Anne."

"What?" His angry words drove the moisture from the queen's eyes and made them narrow in a glare. "François, I'm longing to have _your_ son! _Not Henry's_ son – _your_ son!"

At this, his anger abated. "Really?" he inquired suspiciously.

"I'm not lying to you!" she answered curtly.

He rolled his eyes. "Well, maybe you will deign to explain."

"It is my duty." An expression of the utmost grief crossed her countenance. "Your noblest son, Charles, sacrificed himself to save me, Louise, and his unborn sibling. You have lost two sons during the past several years, and I know how important it is for you to have at least one more male child. The Salic law… The Valois male line must continue." She blinked her tears away. "Some say that you should not have married me, François. I'm an enemy of your many courtiers – a Protestant queen in a Catholic country. Now they will be delighted that your wife has not birthed you a son, laughing at me behind my back. But the worst is that they will be right."

The monarch's countenance turned funereal. "Charles died a hero's death; his sacrifice will never be forgotten. As for _our_ subjects, you are wrong: most of them accepted you as their queen, and I swear that I shall deal with all Catholics who might dare harm you and our daughters."

Guilt painted itself onto her face. "You are too kind and too generous to me."

"Calm down, Anne. I beg of you not to torture yourself anymore."

At his request, Anne passed on the girl to François. The infant began to fuss, and the king broke into a quiet song that seemed half lullaby, half chant as he bounced the baby lightly. By the end of the song in French, the child was calmer, looking at her father with a smile.

"Our girl looks like you, wife," he observed. "She has your hair and your eyes. Louise is like my mother: a Savoy through and through. But this girl is a natural Boleyn."

Not liking his words, she stressed, "They are also both Valois as well."

"Yes." François cradled her in the crook of his arm.

Indeed, the baby girl had a tuft of black curls on her small head, slightly olive skin, shining dark eyes, and deep dimples in both cheeks. She was absolutely stunning! As the monarch peered into the infant's eyes, François thought that staring into them was like looking into a fathomless lake where he saw the beginning of all happiness and love one could find in the entire universe. Now the ruler felt as hypnotized as he always felt when his gaze locked with his queen's.

The king verbalized his thoughts. "Eyes the color of earth in the midst of a swarthy face! It is as if you were looking back through the tunnel of time to the earth's origins."

The queen chuckled. "Are they so mysterious?"

This elicited a smile from him. "Her eyes are as enigmatic and hooking as her mother's."

As François made funny faces, the baby cooed and cooed. Anne smiled at this marvelous picture: it was good that her newborn daughter was in such high spirits. The infant had no true understanding of what potential difficulties lay ahead for her mother, and the first of them – dealing with whisperings and snickerings about Anne's inability to bear sons – was looming fast.

"Our next child will be _a son_ ," the queen vowed. "I shall not disappoint you again."

Her spouse continued playing with the girl. "You sound foolish in spite of your tremendous intelligence. The Almighty determines the baby's gender, and no amount of praying for a son can help you if you are not destined to have one. We will have a son if God wills it."

She released a sigh. "You are probably right."

"Aimée," François drawled, tasting the sound on his tongue. "Princess Aimée de Valois."

His choice of a name delighted Anne. On the night of their reconciliation, François had said that he wanted to have another female child with her whom he would name Aimée. They had also spoken about a name for a boy – Augustin. "It is not a traditional name for French royalty."

"Its meaning is _'beloved'_. In the eyes of many Christians, it refers to _'love for God'_. She is France's beloved girl! Our daughter's name will be a link to my feelings for you, Anne."

"What?" Her heart hammered like a living creature that had been sewn into her chest cavity.

"Beloved," François emphasized meaningfully.

The monarch's gaze flew to her face. The queen was staring at him with a blend of the rarest wonder and disbelief, her eyes tempestuous with deep emotion, reflecting her inner tumult. He repeated the same, and her mouth dropped open in astonishment, which caused him to grin.

"I love you, Anne," the ruler uttered in most sincere accents. "I had never loved a woman before I married you. After our wedding, it took me quite some time to realize that I worship you beyond the words to tell. You have become my life after you gave birth to our Louise."

"It is… impossible," a bewildered Anne stuttered.

"You don't believe me, do you?" An arrow of hurt struck him in the chest.

"Oh no, God in heaven, no!" She hurried to negate any notion of affront that her statement could have planted. "I would never imply anything bad as you might think I mean. It is just so unexpected… How could I think that you could have feelings for me when I did not even want to be your wife? Our marriage started as a political arrangement necessary to salvage France."

François planted a kiss on their daughter's forehead. "Indeed, our union was political at first. You not only rejected me as a friend and a lover – you loathed me because of your disdain for men and Henry. Then you warmed up to me, and I was happy with the changes in you."

"Husband, it is too difficult for me to believe in the love of another king." Her expression began to take on a feverish intensity. "After my experience with Henry, I've lost faith in love."

"Anne, I know you suffered too much. I do not demand that you reciprocate my feelings right now, but I hope that you will heal enough to let us be happy together."

For a brief moment, Anne thought that time was standing still. Or maybe her heart was. A vivid flame of romance and hope for paradisal contentment flared up within her, refusing to be extinguished. Had she really heard all these glorious things from her husband? Some magical admission that turned her universe upon its head! _François, now, of all times, your words have given me serene joy. Does he really love me? Or is his confession a figment of my imagination?_

The ruler stood up and handed the infant to his wife, holding her gaze. "Wife, promise me that you will try not to think of Henry and all your misfortunes."

A tremor of her erstwhile fears ripped through Anne. The dormant emotions of indescribable tenderness, gratitude, and affection – her newly discovered feelings for François – inundated her, leaving her perplexed. All of these powerful sensations were swirling, intensifying, crashing, and twisting inside her. Turbulent and conflicted, they were in chaos, but they were escalating and converging to a previously impossible conclusion – Anne yearned to be content with him.

The queen blinked, startled all over again. Her voice weak, Anne uttered, "Happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it will elude you. Nevertheless, we can try."

He did not hide his disappointment. "Well, then. It will be as you wish."

"Thank you, François." Her heart slammed within the walls of her chest.

"I must go." Ice settled in the back of his throat. "To my Charles…"

Anne swallowed convulsively. "God bless you, François. I shall be here for you!"

Nodding his thanks, the monarch felt smaller than the lowest person in the whole world, more helpless than a sinner condemned to remain in purgatory forever. For the most part, kings feel as mighty and invincible as the warrior-gods of the ancient times, but they are powerless in the face of death. His steps weak and faltering, he walked towards the door, slowly and reluctantly.

§§§

The queen's ladies-in-waiting thronged near the entrance to her rooms. Their whisperings were full of curiosity as to the monarch's reaction to his new daughter's birth.

"Will the king be happy?" Adrienne de Cosse wondered.

Louise, Anne de Montmorency's sister, liked the queen in spite of her Catholic religion. But she was relieved that Anne had not borne a son. "Her Majesty has failed His Majesty _again_."

Jeanne d'Angoulême interposed, "How dare you gossip about the queen? You are talking about the courageous woman who assisted our king in saving the country from the Spaniards!"

"You have no shame!" Françoise de Longwy, Philippe de Chabot's wife, supported her.

Françoise de Foix berated, "You have no right to treat Her Majesty this way. His Majesty will not stand for it! You must all thank the Lord for a new Valois child!"

"I beg your pardon." Louise de Montmorency's gaze was downcast.

"Don't you dare malign Queen Anne!" Elizabeth Boleyn hissed as she and Mary Stafford appeared at the end of the hallway. "You must respect Her Majesty and never slander her!"

Everyone was stunned into silence. Ire pulsated through the air like a rapid heartbeat.

"I love the queen and everything about her," Adrienne defended herself.

Louise rejoined the talk. "I am in awe of our queen, to whom we are all devoted."

Elizabeth neared Montmorency's sister and grabbed her arm. "Some words are dangerous, Madame. You and your family, together with the House of Lorraine, represent the Catholic faction at court. Neither King François nor I will allow you to humiliate and harm my daughter."

"Be careful," Mary Stafford entered the conversation. Standing beside her mother, she eyed all the women in the corridor. "The court is a place of deadly intrigues."

Louise de Montmorency avouched, "My brother, Constable of France, is His Majesty's best friend and most loyal subject. My allegiance to the House of Valois is also unwavering."

"Watch your tongue." Elizabeth's rage sharpened her features. "Keep your mouth shut, and you will stay out of trouble. The king will appreciate your respect to his spouse."

"I am loyal to the King and Queen of France," reiterated Madame de Montmorency.

Anne's mother released Louise as the Valois ruler exited from his wife's apartments.

Everybody curtsied. The monarch acknowledged Anne's family with a brief, wan smile. As the king walked to his wife's relatives, others stepped aside to give them privacy.

Observing Elizabeth and Mary, the ruler asked outright, "What is it that has all of you so tense?" No one answered, so he added, "Madame Wiltshire?"

Elizabeth was inwardly terrified. "My Annie had another daughter." Her voice was so quiet that her words were nearly inaudible. "I pray that she will give you a son next time."

François leaned closer to his wife's mother, whispering, "You would best be thinking more of how our little princess is faring. Anne and I both like her name – Aimée."

"Is that true?" Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief.

"A daughter is as much a blessing as a son," the king asserted, patting his mother-in-law's arm comfortingly. "Even if Anne produces only female progeny, I'll not repudiate her."

Mary grinned with relief. "My sister is so fortunate, then! She will avoid the burden of her husband's frustrated looks should she have only a brood of girls."

The monarch's impish laughter, yet rather sullen, booked through the hallway. "I shall be especially delighted if these many girls bear resemblance to their extraordinary mother."

"Thanks be to God," Elizabeth and Mary whispered.

His eyes raking the crowd, the King of France affirmed, "My friends! Pray for my most beloved newborn daughter! Long life to Queen Anne and Princess Aimée de Valois!"

The Boleyn women looked squarely at Adrienne and Louise without arrogance. The queen's family had the high royal favor, and it protected them to a significant degree, but no matter how powerful their connections, resentment was a great motive for plotting – Mary and Elizabeth knew that. Most of the ladies smiled with relief, but some had astonished countenances.

François beamed with pleasure as he headed to the ground floor. All garbed in modest mourning clothes, his entourage trailed behind him like a cloud. He would gladly have stayed with Anne and their newborn daughter for longer, but Isabella of Portugal, the emperor's wife, had unexpectedly arrived an hour previously, and now she awaited him in the presence chamber.

The ruler did not order celebrations in honor of his new daughter's birth. Despite his outward calmness, his heart was missing beat after beat. Princess Aimée was born, but Prince Charles was dead, and everyone's spirits were as gloomy as the blue-black waters of the sea before a storm.

§§§

Without a herald's announcement, the door to the royal presence chamber opened. Like a shadow, Empress Isabella slipped inside, her steps careful and precise in a fearful way, strange steps for a woman who always moved confidently, slowly, and stately as royalty.

"Welcome to France," she heard a majestic voice that addressed her in accented Spanish. The voice added, though with scorn, " _Your Majesty_ must be tired after a long journey."

Isabella lowered herself into a stunning curtsey. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I'm honored to see the victor in the Franco-Spanish war." She spoke to him in French with a Spanish accent.

François switched into his native tongue. "Thanks be to God that I emerged triumphant from the invasion launched by two Habsburg brothers, one of them your husband."

As she sauntered until stopping in the room's center, the empress was a knot of fright and anxiety seeking release, a knot of terror that sat like lead in her abdomen.

Having just arrived, Isabella had immediately asked for an audience with the King of France. When her request had been granted quickly, she had had no time to change into alternative attire. Isabella's outfit was of brown and green damask with satin-lined oversleeves caught together at the front; a matching flat cap was trimmed with gold, showing off her blonde hair to advantage.

Raising her eyes, Isabella studied King François who sat in his imposing gilded throne. To her surprise, he wore a doublet of black silk embroidered with satin and black silk hose. Something stony in his face, perhaps a twist of barely suppressed grief, sent shivers along her spine. _François is fond of sumptuous, colorful clothes. Why is he dressed in black? Is he in mourning?_

"I…" She opened her mouth, but the words struck in her throat.

"You have come," began the ruler, "to negotiate the release of Archduke Ferdinand, King of Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary, also King of the Romans. You wish to know my demands."

The eyes of her spouse's adversary shifted and intensified. The chamber was warm with the heat of the candles and torches necessary for light. The walls, lavishly decorated with frescoes of mythological scenes from the life of the Greek God Zeus, pressed upon him from all sides.

Nothing could quieten Isabella's fears, pulsating through her whole being like the hottest torrents of lava from a volcano's mouth. "Yes. How is Ferdinand fairing?"

"The emperor's brother has already read far more books than he did in any other time."

Her throat dried. "How can I be sure that he is alive?"

"I'll permit you to meet with Ferdinand," acquiesced François.

 _It is my first small success!_ Isabella was aware that François was a chivalrous man, one who was kinder than Henry of England and her own husband. Even so, Isabella still wanted their agreement solidified in writing, including both their seals. Nevertheless, it seemed impossible, and the empress was glad that her spouse's enemy was inclined to negotiations.

Relief and hope reflected themselves on her visage. "Will you release him?"

"I'll think about it," he replied coolly.

The empress' heart sank into her stomach. "Your Majesty has kept my brother-in-law in captivity for more than year and a half. Our ambassador, Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle, spoke to you, but you refused to discuss Ferdinand's release. But when you consented to meet with me, I thought that we would be able to reach an agreement."

The ruler directed a disdainful glance at her. "I spent more time in Spanish captivity at first in Italy and then in Madrid. I lived in far, far worse conditions than Ferdinand enjoys during all this time. Don't worry about him: the king is hale and hearty, though rather depressed."

She cast her gaze down in shame. "You may not believe me, but I endeavored to persuade Carlos to improve your living conditions while you were in Spain. My late sister-in-law, Eleanor, spoke to him on your behalf as well. All was in vain because of his hatred for you."

"I know that." Despite her candor, his tone was cold.

Isabella glanced back at him. "How?"

"Eleanor and I were never close, but once she told me about that. My sons, François and Henri, informed me about Eleanor's and your visits to their abhorrent prison: you both brought them delicious meals and toys, and every time you visited them, you treated them well."

"I do remember those days." Shame for the emperor's inhuman attitude to the two captive princes, who had been toddlers back then, was obvious in her gaze. "Your boys were so upset that they were separated from their parents. They dreamed of going home, begging Eleanor and me to help them escape. They should not have been involved in your struggle with the Habsburgs."

François grunted with disgust, "My sons were innocent victims of your husband. I know why he kept me in that old and dilapidated castle where I almost died. His implacable aversion towards me and France deprived him of his humanity towards the House of Valois, and he did not care that he tormented my children – two unfortunate boys, not even of age."

Her conscience pricked her like a needle through a thimble. "Carlos did some horrible things to Your Majesty and your family. I do apologize for my spouse's misdeeds."

"It is too late for regret." His countenance evolved into that of the ultimate despondency, but then it went blank. "My eldest son, François, never recovered his health after his return from Madrid. My son's blood is on the hands of _your most noble_ husband!"

"I'm very sorry," she repeated. His accusations towards Carlos were fair.

For a few minutes, François did not speak, his arctic eyes piercing his guest. Through an intolerable length of silence, Isabella watched him, anticipating a stream of his guilty words.

The monarch broke the pause. "Only out of my respect to you, Your Majesty, I'll arrange your meeting with Ferdinand. The only reason why I consented to grant you an audience is my knowledge of your endeavors to help me and my sons during our captivities."

Torrents of joy rushed through the empress, yet she was obsessed over François' each word. Still apprehensive of Ferdinand's fate, she had always had an affectionate relationship with her husband's younger sibling. She had noticed that François had not addressed her as 'Your Imperial Majesty'. _François has not acknowledged me properly due to his disdain towards the Habsburgs. But I did not expect to have a warm reception from him,_ Isabella mused.

The monarch commenced an irate assault, as though reading her thoughts. "The House of Habsburg does not deserve a modicum of respect from my family or my subjects. Not after the captivity of France's sovereign and her princes. Not after the recent invasion that wrecked the lives of my countrymen. Moreover, we utterly defeated the emperor, so he is no longer as mighty as he once was." For a split second, a triumphant smile was arrayed on his countenance.

In spite of her knowledge of the emperor's many misdeeds against the French ruler, she did not like that he castigated her beloved husband. "In his thirst for vengeance, Carlos acted poorly. However, you are not without sin: you took Ferdinand prisoner, too!"

"Yes, I did; but His Bohemian Majesty has been treated as a king. Moreover, I did not imprison any of Carlos' or Ferdinand's children. Even if I had done that, the thought of projecting my anger with Carlos onto his offspring of so tender an age would not have crossed my mind."

She absorbed his honest gaze. "I think you would not. "

"Ferdinand is not an angel." The monarch clenched his bejeweled fingers. "Carlos and he started the invasion. At present, the King of Bohemia is reaping what he sowed."

Isabella felt a pang of sorrow for Ferdinand, seemingly cheated of opportunities to have him released. "What do we have to do so that Ferdinand is liberated?"

"Your Majesty, we shall discuss everything later. In the meantime, you will be lodged in a luxurious suite at court, but my men will guard you heavily. You will not be permitted to be attended by any of your Spanish and Portuguese servants or the ladies-in-waiting in your entourage while staying here. French noblewomen who speak Spanish will see to your needs."

"Is Your Majesty taking me captive against your code of chivalry?"

François rose from his throne, and elucidated in an insinuating tone, "Yesterday, several treacherous Catholics attempted to assassinate my wife, Queen Anne. She was not harmed, but they murdered my son – Prince Charles." He drew a breath. "As Carlos tried to kill Anne during the war but failed, I have suspicions that the emperor might be implicated in this crime."

"What? No! How?" a shaken Isabella stammered.

"And if Carlos sanctioned it…" A gravelly voice growled close to her ear.

She could not hide her horror as the implication set in. "Will you kill him?"

He spat, "Carlos is an accursed murderer, but I am not like him."

For a short time, François and Isabella stood beside each other. His glare exuded berserk rage sharper than a lance. She saw his desire to hurt the emperor as much as he could, and in all ways possible. His abhorrence towards the emperor was a force more powerful than any army.

"May your son rest in peace," Isabella pronounced sincerely.

The monarch pressed his lips together. "I'll not cast _all_ your hopes to nothingness. Yet, you must understand that if my investigation into my son Charles' death unearths something as grave as your spouse's crucial role in this plot, there will be severe consequences. However, not _all_ the Habsburgs must pay for the deaths of my _two sons_ , but some must, though _not by dying_."

Her eyes flickered with reflected fire from the candlelight. "What does that mean?"

With a wolfish grin, he jested, "More enigma, more games, and more entertainment."

Fright rattled the bones in Isabella's flesh. "Death is not entertainment!"

François canted his head. "You will not succeed in running away if you dare try. Be at ease: neither you nor any of the Habsburg brothers will be harmed. But I may do something else."

His cruel gaze hazy with enigma, the Valois ruler swiveled and hurriedly exited.

Unable to overcome her vulnerability, a stressed-out Isabella fell to her knees and buried her face into her hands. _What is François planning?_ _At least he did not slit my throat outright and gave certain promises. Will there be a new bloodthirsty conflict between Spain and France?_ This uncertainty was like a lethal foam that embraced her, taking the shape of her form. Her best option was cooperation with the French ruler, so she braced herself for that difficult task.

§§§

Château de Fontainebleau was a magnificent palace of pleasure, but there was also a small prison there. Followed by guards, King François strode around the circular wall of a tower and ascended the stairs before entering the prison. The foul stench hit their nostrils.

"Your Majesty!" Anne de Montmorency rushed across the corridor, carrying a lit torch. "I've interrogated Cardinal de Tournon and Count Louis de Vaudémont."

François stopped next to the Constable of France. "And your wife, Monty?"

Montmorency exhaled sharply. "Madeline has refused to talk to me."

The king nodded his sympathy. "Admiral de Brion will interrogate her." After a pause, he affirmed gently, "Do you understand that she will be executed for treason?"

"Of course." Montmorency still scarcely believed in his spouse's villainies.

François and Montmorency walked past many cells and descended into an underground cell. A guard brought a torch, and they examined the room. Instruments of torture flashed in the dim light, and several sets of manacles were affixed both high on the wall and close to the floor, so a man with a blood-smeared face, dressed in red raiment, was fettered standing.

"Tournon," the ruler spat like the worst curse. "I've never seen you more miserable."

His eyes straying to the king, the cardinal supplied, "I do not regret what I did – I am God's ambassador. Montmorency tortured me like an animal, and now all I want is to die."

"Is the emperor the culprit?" questioned the monarch.

Montmorency stood behind his sovereign. "That mongrel did not confess to that."

"Let's send him to hell." François unsheathed his poniard.

As the ruler stomped over to him, Cardinal de Tournon cried, "Death comes as it pleases, regardless of nationality, status, and birth. It is no respecter of human feelings, leaving memories and fading sounds of familiar voices. Your heretical queen shall pay for her sins!"

François yelled in fury as he towered over the prisoner. His hate-drenched countenance was the last thing the cardinal saw before the monarch plunged the dagger into his neck and ripped it through gristle and bone. His expression did not flutter even for a second as he observed Tournon writhe in the throes of mortality, his throat gurgling with blood, his limbs convulsing.

Montmorency's voice cut through the sinister silence. "Tournon will be burning in hell for all eternity. It was the right decision not to execute a treacherous cardinal publicly. Despite the crimes of those Catholics, France cannot destroy her good relations with His Holiness."

The king's hand flattened against his chest, where his fragmented heart thumped. "Now I do not care about politics. No amount of spilled blood can return my Charles to life."

Sorrow squeezed Montmorency like a fist. "My deepest condolences, Your Majesty."

"Throw Tournon's body to the dogs," François commanded; his subject inclined his head. The monarch inquired, "Have you caught the Duke de Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine?"

Montmorency vowed, "I shall find them, but they disappeared."

The ruler quitted the prison, followed by the others. The woes, which had befallen François, left him thoroughly drained. His temporary numbness melted into a painful turmoil that twisted each thought into circles and each sensation into pieces of his broken life. The ruler blamed himself for his son's assassination – he would never forgive himself for his failure to prevent it.

* * *

 ** _August 28, 1538, Elsyng Palace, Enfield, north London, England_**

Clad in red brocade and cloth of gold, King Henry lounged in his throne. The second Queen Anne was seated in her throne next to him. Her mother, Lady Honor Grenville, and her stepfather – Sir Arthur Plantagenet, Lord Lisle – as well as her teenaged siblings – John, George, James, Philippa, and Katharine – stood nearby. At this early hour, the great hall was filled with courtiers.

The ruler admired his new consort. The former Anne Bassett was accoutered in a gown of red velvet, cut low and ornamented with a profusion of sapphires and rubies. Her stomacher of black brocade, set with gems, emphasized her swollen belly and gleamed like the flame of triumph in her eyes. Her countenance haughty, her entire appearance was screaming that she had achieved the highest female status in the realm, proclaiming her absolute superiority over all women.

Two months ago, Pope Paul III had excommunicated King Henry. The royal chief minister, Thomas Cromwell, continued the gradual disbandment of the monastic houses – those that had not yet been destroyed. The late Pope Clement VII had threatened excommunication to Henry in 1533. The papal Bull, declaring the Tudor ruler a godless heretic officially, had ended a vicious conflict between the English crown and the Roman curia, but Henry did not care about that.

"My queen," Henry flirted with his consort. "You are lovely!"

His spouse flashed a brilliant smile. "My most handsome and mighty monarch!"

At the herald's declaration, the king turned his head to the door. He glanced at the French ambassador, Antoine de Castelnau, as if he were a hungry vulture, as the man entered.

Everyone's gazes were glued to Castelnau who threaded towards the thrones. Although his countenance was impassive, his slow, reluctant gait lacked confidence, betraying his anxiety.

"Monsieur de Castelnau," began the Tudor ruler in his native tongue. "Come here."

"I'm at Your Majesty's disposal," the diplomat answered in accented English.

There was a snort of derision from the king. "No doubt you are afraid of me and my power. But rest assured you will feel better after learning about the reason for our meeting."

Masking his dread with a vague smile, Castelnau stopped several respectful paces from the monarch. He swept a gallant bow to _the Tudor blackguard_ , as he referred to Henry in his mind. Although the relationship between England and France had always been strained, the two countries had become sworn foes, just as they had been during the Hundred Years' War, the moment Henry had received the tidbits of his former wife's wedding to his Valois archenemy.

"How can I serve you?" Castelnau's eyes were downcast.

"Afraid to look at me?" Henry sniggered with disdain.

The other man stared at him. "How can I help Your Majesty?"

"To your knees!" The king's roar was like thunder.

"I'm sorry?" The ambassador was utterly perplexed.

"Do as I say," Henry bellowed. "Or I'll have you beheaded like a pig for slaughter!"

Half-incensed, half-shaken, Castelnau fell to his knees, shutting his eyes to avoid seeing the monarch's and his courtiers' cynical grins. "As you wish, sire."

Henry pointed a scornful finger at him. "You have little time left at this post."

Everyone listened to this exchange with anticipation and bafflement.

"Will… you… arrest me?" Castelnau stammered.

"So frightened of losing your worthless life, you coward? I'll not execute you because you will fly home soon, you French insect. I've decided to expel you from my court."

Waves of astonishment shot through the spines of all the spectators.

Still on his knees, Castelnau asked, "Are you declaring war on France?"

Henry smirked. "Not yet. You are just too bold for my liking."

"I'll gladly depart." To Castelnau, Henry was a wolf coveting to devour him at once.

Anger boiling in his blood, the ruler forced it down and calmed his mind, abruptly changing the subject. "Has your whorish queen given birth to her second bastard?"

" _Queen_ Anne," stressed the diplomat, "is my sovereign's wife in the eyes of God and law, so any child born in their marriage is _legitimate_. Princess Aimée was born last month; France is also in mourning because our liege lord's son, Prince Charles, passed away on the same day."

King Henry laughed with triumphant satisfaction that riled the ambassador and Anne's allies. Whisperings of Anne's supporters arose, while her adversaries all grinned viciously. The prince's death surprised them, but the news of her failure were more important to them.

Following an insinuating pause, Henry snickered. "I am not in mourning for Prince Charles. I view his death as the Lord's just punishment for a king who married a criminal."

This distasteful expression of his cruelty and his disdain towards the Valois dynasty did not surprise the ambassador in the slightest. "Your Majesty is gracious beyond my expectations."

Henry gestured towards his consort before gushing ebulliently, "My wife is with child! She is fertile, unlike that Boleyn slut. She will produce a brood of Tudor princes!"

Anne Bassett blanched like a gambler abandoned by luck. Her husband's statement stabbed her like an axe that might sever her head from the body if she disappointed him. "Our boy will rule both England and France after his father conquers the Valois usurper's lands."

Venom leaked out of the monarch's mouth. "Pass on my congratulations to your sovereign, Castelnau! When that dim-witted François married the Boleyn slut, he not only besmirched his family's and his country's honor, but also deprived himself of a chance to have more legitimate male heirs. It is clear that the trollop is incapable of producing male progeny! I've likened him to a stupid royal pariah who is cursed to lose his kingdom because of his own stupidity."

Castelnau stood up. " _Queen_ Anne will have _several_ sons with King François."

In a fit of insane rage, Henry rushed forward and grabbed the ambassador. The king punched Castelnau until the man's legs buckled, kicking the diplomat each time he fell down and then picked him up to beat him down again. Castelnau did not fight back, knowing that he might be executed if he resisted. The ruler continued the beating until the man's face was all bloody.

Transfixed, the nobles watched the scene in silence, terrified.

"Take this worm to his quarters!" Henry spat down onto the man, sprawled on the floor. "If he does not leave tomorrow at first light, I shall chop off his head with my bare hands."

After he had passed out, servants carried Castelnau out of the chamber.

The king returned to his throne, glowering at his wife. "Anne, your most sacred duty is to give me my prince. I must prove that it was _her fault_ she did not give me a son."

"What if it is a girl?" This slipped from her lips before she could think of the consequences.

"You have only _one chance_ , my darling." The meaning of his threat was clear.

The queen's mother paled. Shoving a hand over their mouths, Anne's brothers and sisters halted gasps. Many observed their reactions, but they failed to notice the growing pallor of Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, who stood a small distance away, struggling to look composed.

"God will bless us." Anne let out a brittle smile.

"Let's go," Henry murmured, suddenly surprising her with the gentleness of his tone as he straightened to his full height. "You may spend some time with my little Elizabeth."

The royals swept out of the room, but they parted their ways soon. While Henry went to his rooms to service his mistress, Anne Seymour, his wife headed to Elizabeth's rooms.

§§§

The sky was lit up by many twinkling stars, a crescent moon hanging golden in the blackness. Princess Elizabeth stretched languidly, reveling in the sumptuous feather, canopied bed. Lulled by a bedtime story, she was caught up in the sweet music of Queen Anne's voice.

It took the queen half an hour to finish the tale. "The prince saved his beloved princess at the last moment before the forces of evil could kill her. The couple then invited all their subjects to the celebration of their wedding. They lived together in happiness for eternity."

Elizabeth smiled widely. "It is such a nice story! Did they have children?"

"Of course!" The queen smiled at her stepdaughter. "They had many sons and daughters. Each of them was as gorgeous and intelligent as you, my dearest Highness."

"God blessed them!" The girl laughed when her stepmother ceased to speak.

Anne nodded. "Yes, He did. And no one could destroy their family."

To her surprise, the new queen had rapidly grown to love little Elizabeth after her marriage to Henry. The princess was a true charmer who could make even her mother's foes like her a great deal. Henry's new wife admired her namesake who had married two powerful monarchs and given children to them both. _Elizabeth must have taken a lot after her mother,_ she thought.

"Not all queens are content," Elizabeth muttered before realizing that she had verbalized her thoughts. Her eyes flashing in fear, she apologized, "I'm sorry, Your Majesty."

Her stepmother smiled sympathetically. "I understand that you miss your beloved mama. But you should not speak of her to His Majesty, or he might get very angry with you."

"I know." A fat tear trickled down the toddler's cheek. Lady Margaret Bryan and Lady Margery Horsman had explained that to her a while ago, and she followed their advice.

"Everything will be all right." Anne stroked the girl's red-gold hair. "There are many people who love you, Lizzy. You are not alone, despite your mother's exile."

The princess smiled at her. "I like you more than Queen Jane."

Genuinely pleased, the queen purred, "Ah, your bright eyes see too much, our little Tudor rose. You have discerned my best distinction from your former stepmother."

"I shall be a good sister to your child." The princess clapped her hand upon her heart.

Anne briefly touched her abdomen. "I'm most delighted, my dear! Your brother will be the most fortunate boy to have a wonderful older sister such as yourself."

"Yes!" Elizabeth would have preferred to have a baby brother with her estranged mother. Yet, she did not mind if her father's new kind spouse birthed her a brother.

"Now you need to go to bed, Your Highness."

The girl yawned. "I'm so tired, but I'll have to get up for matins."

"If you are not well rested, then you will fall asleep during the prayer. Oh, the indignity! It might strike kings, queens, princes, and princesses like an arrow! You ought to go to bed right now, Your Highness, for I do not want you to become an object for jesting or ridicule."

The queen and her stepdaughter laughed in unison. While putting Elizabeth to bed, Anne chirped to her like a bird. Anne did not leave even after Elizabeth had fallen asleep.

Queen Anne's mind drifted to the recent events in her life. At the end of May, after the annulment of the king's marriage to Jane, Henry had married his pregnant mistress at Leeds Castle. Anne had fantasized that her wedding would be merry and attended by many guests. However, her private and hasty ceremony had broken those reveries, and the monarch's reminder that he had wed her only because of the child, became the conduit for her terror-filled days.

Soon the court had moved to Elsyng Palace, called Little Park, which was used by the king as a hunting lodge. Henry's new queen disliked this large brick palace, which, in her opinion, was sufficient only to receive the court on progress; she preferred Hampton Court and Greenwich Palace. The monarch nonetheless enjoyed the time he spent hunting in nearby woods, where he reveled in his infamous parties with Suffolk, Exeter, and other members of his inner circle.

 _I'm the king's fourth queen,_ she mused. _Am I the last one?_ Anne labored to be what Henry longed to see in his wife: a wife absolutely obedient to her lord and husband. After his previous marriages, intelligent and headstrong women were anathema for Henry. His second Anne was a little better than nothing to him – she was valuable for him only because of the chance that she would secure the succession. Along with her fears as to the baby's gender, Anne's worst terror that her deadly secret would be unveiled, and she avoided looking at the Marquess of Exeter.

After the annulment of her union with the king, _Lady_ Jane Seymour had been dispatched back to her family's estates. Yet, King Henry had ordered his new wife to recall Jane back, which Anne had done unwillingly. _Why does Henry want Jane to stay at court? Does he have some special plans for her?_ a baffled Anne wondered. The other Seymours, save the Earl and Countess of Hertford, had all been banished from court and returned to the countryside to Wulfhall.

After she had slipped under the royal sheets, the former Lady Anne Bassett had been fond of flaunting her affair with the English ruler without regard to the jealous pangs her former rival must have experienced. However, now when her gaze intersected with Jane's, Anne often detected the loneliness and despair in Jane's eyes, causing her to feel guilty for the woman's woes.

Recently, Princess Elizabeth had arrived at Elsyng, and the king was attentive to her. Anne had a sense of togetherness with the girl, and if she had an exceptional daughter such as Elizabeth, she would be the proudest mother. On the back of courtiers' coldness towards her, Anne believed that the girl was one of her few friends, in addition to her siblings, Katherine and Philippa. The queen did not have a close relationship with her cold mother, Lady Honor Grenville.

Elizabeth smiled in her sleep. Her stepmother stroked her hair, and climbed to her feet.

Anne paused in the antechamber as the sound of subdued, yet excited, voices came to her ears. Having recognized them, she stood still and listened for a handful of minutes.

Margaret Bryan gushed, "I'm so honored to be the bearer of excellent tidings. The letters they found at one of Cromwell's estates will prove his vile plots."

Margery Horseman speculated, "I admit I've been dreadfully worried about the outcome of our endeavors. I'm craving to see the traitors executed and to have Queen Anne's name cleared. But even if King Henry learns of her innocence, his hatred for her will not abate."

"True," Margaret answered impatiently, a nervous anxiety smoldering inside of her. "His Majesty's obsession with Queen Anne will not fade away. Knowing that she never betrayed him, he might want to have her back as his wife, yet the King of France will never let that happen."

"Yes, but now we have to discuss our role in the upcoming drama."

When they left, Queen Anne hastened out of the room into the corridor. At this very moment, Anne was more cognizant of her circumstances than before: her spouse's obsession with the ghost of the first Anne was a threat to the royal position of the second one, especially lest Anne's child would be stillborn or a girl. The baby that was not fathered by King Henry…

On the way to her apartments, Anne's mind involuntarily drifted to the Marquess of Exeter. They evaded one another like those infected with leprosy, but she longed for him like never before. The thought of remaining in this limbo – with Exeter at court and yet without the opportunity to see him – made her heart writhe in agony, painting her consciousness in painful hues. _Never before was any man as important to me as Hal Courtenay has become,_ the queen lamented.

§§§

It was a mild, still night. Through veils of light mist, the crescent moon shone with a tranquil bride-like grace upon the silent land. An ideal night for lovers, one would say, for sweet meetings and sweeter partings. A night that mocked with its despondent calm at the tenacious desperation growing inside of the Marquess of Exeter, a need for someone he could not have.

Memories of the many nights Exeter had spent with Anne Bassett at Leeds Castle paraded before his mind's eye. Passionate hours when they had been sequestered from the rest of the world that conspired to separate them forever. Dizzy from happiness, Hal had dreamed that his amorous fairytale would continue, but then Anne had ended their relationship. As he had seen her throwing up a few days before their last conversation, Exeter suspected why she had left him again.

"Anne," Hal Courtenay whispered the name of the woman he loved and whom he saw every day at court as the king's wife. "How should I live now?"

His hand rushed to a decanter of wine on the table. He poured out a goblet to the brim, and quaffed it in a single draught. As the hours passed, Exeter, gripped in a delirium of impotent desire for Anne Tudor née Bassett, emptied many cups. His vision was spinning in a blur, and the red-brocaded walls of his study, located within the large Exeter apartments, seemed redder than blood.

Wobbling on his feet, Exeter stood up and plodded over to a table in the corner. He took a bowl of water from there and washed his face from forehead to chin and ear to ear. He did not want to fall asleep, intending to drink until dawn. He then returned to his high-back oak chair.

"Another one…" Exeter seated himself back into the chair. "And one more…"

Exeter took a swig of wine from his cup, and then drained it in one swallow. Therewith, he refilled the goblet and started drinking the next one when footsteps sounded in the room.

"Hal, you have imbibed rather more wine than you should have done."

Turning to the door, he grimaced at the sight of his wife. "What do you want?"

The eyes of Gertrude Courtenay narrowed in ire or confusion. "You don't care about me, but that does not mean that you need to drink yourself to death and leave me a widow."

Exeter burst out laughing. "You wanted to separate from me last year, yet you didn't despite my consent. Am I supposed to believe that you have developed feelings for me?"

Gertrude dragged a few controlled breaths. "Hal, I once loved you deeply."

"God!" he uttered through gritted teeth. "Don't start that old drivel. The bad boy Exeter broke the life and heart of the noblest and wronged Lady Gertrude. I'm fed up with it."

The Exeter spouses glared at each other like maddened dogs.

"Yes." She approached him. "Your affairs destroyed our marriage and broke my heart."

In silence, Exeter viewed his wife from top to toe with the gaze of a stranger.

Of medium height and well formed, Gertrude had an oval face, a slightly elongated nose, blue eyes, and pale complexion. In early youth, she had been pretty, but the aging process had taken its toll upon her, and her chronic illnesses had weakened her. Her dark satin robe accentuated her abnormal leanness; from beneath her cap fell curls of brown hair in a smooth roll.

"Your nastiness drove me away from you, Gertrude. Into the arms of other women."

"Really?" The faintest sort of smile lurked about the corners of her mouth.

Exeter's eyes were a cloudy blue, reflecting his heartache and disgust with her. "You! But we have been through this many times. You will never recognize your mistakes."

"I've not separated from you only because of our son." Her eyes seemed to look out at the world with a curious impassivity. "Our Eddie loves you very much."

Their only son was named Edward Courtenay. He had been born in 1527 and spent most of his life in his father's estates in the west of England. Exeter was a prominent figure at the royal court since the beginning of King Henry's reign. Gertrude had enjoyed the friendship of Catherine of Aragon, even after her divorce from the monarch. They had never supported Anne Boleyn, although Gertrude had been forced by the monarch to be Princess Elizabeth's godmother.

"I love him, too. He is _my_ son!" Exeter poured another cup.

Gertrude came to the table, then reached for his forearm. "Eddie is _our_ son!"

Her husband growled, "Take away your hand. Let me drink!"

"Why are you so distressed, Hal? For whom is your adulterous soul weeping? For all of your lovers or for yourself?" There was a sardonic inflection in the last sentence.

After setting the goblet onto the table, the marquess brushed her hand away. "It is none of your business. It is very late, so you need to rest. I'll come soon."

"You will lie beside me, saying nothing. Dreaming of someone else, as always."

Exeter wet his lips. "Gertrude, don't make things worse. Just go."

She breathed deeply, feeling suddenly self-conscious and uncomfortable. "Such care about me is atypical for Lord Exeter whose arrogance – the York arrogance – is too overbearing."

An opaque shadow of loathing passed over his countenance. "Yes, I'm a direct descendant of the House of York. I'm the king's close friend, one who was brought up with him."

A tormenting breath made Gertrude's chest ache. "Your hubris is unpleasant!"

His glare impaled her. "Stay away from me. I don't wish to see you."

"I will." She clapped her hands to her lips to choke down a scream of fury.

After her departure, Exeter drank for another hour. His hands clasped the cheeks of his still young face lined into gray pallor of his bleakness and inebriety. Image of Anne Bassett's face shimmered in his brain, curtseying with the moving waves of his hazy brain. A murmur of Exeter's inner voice rose from the depths of his being like a dull thud of oars: _I love you so much, Anne._

* * *

 _Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same about myself: I could leave Tuscany in a week or so, but the day before yesterday I fell down a steep staircase. I am lucky not to have broken my neck, but I have a lot of terrible bruises on my back, which hurt a lot._

 _I feared to update this fiction because of the pressure upon me to give Anne a son. This time you are not getting what you want – Anne has a second daughter with François, just as the late Queen Claude had given her husband two girls before the late Dauphin François was born. From the start, I planned that Anne would have three girls (one with Henry, Elizabeth, and two with François, Louise and Aimée) before she has a son. In this way, Anne is like Elizabeth Woodsville. I warned you about Anne's unconventional childbearing character arc in this AU. It is not the reason to be angry and not to follow this story from now on. My advice as an author of this epic is to read and enjoy the drama because CWL is flooding with drama of all sorts._

 _King François lost 4 children within the space of 3 years: the late Dauphin François, Prince Charles, and Madeline de Valois, Queen of Scotland, as well as one unborn child with his mistress. His Majesty will be heartbroken for a long time. Anne's new child of any gender will be welcomed by François. Anne can be pregnant many times because she has at least 10 childbearing years ahead: in this AU, she is born in 1508 (I think she was born in 1507), and at this point, Anne is only 30. Eleanor of Aquitaine and Elizabeth Woodville had their last kids at the age of 42; Anna of Bohemia and Hungary had her last baby at 43. As there was no birth control back then, Anne might be pregnant many times. I am against Anne having twins: most of them did not survive back then, and such births were too traumatic. Anne and François are unrelated, so they progeny will be healthy and not inbred, and they will have a son a bit later._

 _The Valois dynasty vulnerable is currently rather vulnerable in matters of succession, given that Dauphin Henri has no children (so far!), especially because of the Salic law. They have two options: Anne must produce a son, or Henri's marriage to Catherine should be annulled, which will not happen. Margot and François will be very worried in private. François will not put his wife under pressure and emotionally abuse her, and Anne will watch his love for the second daughter. This will allow Anne to see the great difference between Henry and François, helping her finally fall for her second husband. Anne and François said to each other that they want to have a large family; they agreed in chapter 23 that if they had a girl, they would name her Aimée, and if they had a boy, his name would be Augustin. We will need the name Charlotte soon!_

 _Catherine and Diane knew about the attempt of the Lorraine brothers and Tournon on the lives of Queen Anne and her children. They watched and kept silent. If you go back to chapter 23 to the last scene, you will see Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli reading a letter from the Pope._

 _Empress Isabella came to France for negotiations with King François, but she finds herself almost a prisoner at Fontainebleau. Prince Charles was killed only yesterday, and the Lorraine brothers escaped, so François is suspicious and directly tells her that he suspects Carlos of being involved in his son's murder. I can tell you the truth: Carlos is not guilty of this conspiracy against Anne, for she has enough enemies in France. François deals with Cardinal de Tournon._

 _The Henry VIII/Castelnau scene shows Henry's joy that Anne didn't have a son, but it is a temporary joy. The new Queen Anne, the former Lady Bassett, is afraid that she will have a girl. From the scene of Lord Exeter's drunken despair, you can deduce who the father of Anne's child is. No, neither Exeter (he is very clever!) nor Anne will be executed on the charges of adultery, but no woman can be happy if she is tied to Henry. Anne Bassett loves Princess Elizabeth._

 _I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze, and at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. I also recommend 'Katherine's Vision' by QueenMaryofEngland._ _I've helped many authors widen their audience, but I've not heard a good word from some, not all of them. I prefer to do good things, but I shall issue the note outlining the changes in my policies. My current health issues prevent me from doing something that will hurt me emotionally._

 _Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athenais Penelope Clemence_


	32. Chapter 31: Mind-Blowing Turns

**Chapter 31: Mind-Blowing Turns**

 ** _October 5, 1538, Elsyng Palace, the town of Enfield, north London, England_**

At the opening of the door, Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, turned to Queen Anne. His excited breath caught in his lungs as she mannerly crossed to the center of the room and swiveled to him. She was clad in a gown of dark green and brown brocade slashed with white, which was uncharacteristically somber for her – dignity suited her, not lessening her feminity.

The queen seated herself in a red-brocaded armchair, her legs crossed at the ankle. Although she had already begun to wear looser gowns, her pregnancy was now visible in a sitting position. His gaze glued to her, Hal settled himself into a matching armchair beside her.

"I'm here," commenced Anne, her lovely face evolving into that of an irate sorceress. "Why did you send me that dratted letter, Hal? Didn't a thought that my relatives, or worse my ladies-in-waiting, could open it cross your mind? Do you not sense danger at all?"

He gushed, "I'm blessed to be alone with Your Majesty."

"I assure you that the pleasure is not reciprocated. We do not have much time left. I must return soon, before my maids come to put me to bed. What do you want?"

For a short time, Exeter examined Anne in silence. He admired her beauty that glowed from within, apparently from her love for the baby; but it was a complex, prickly sort of loveliness, just as her feisty character was, more like an exotic wild flower than a rose. The walls, draped in pink silk and tapestries depicting Madonna and the baby Jesus, added to the glow about Anne.

"Is it my child, Anne?" Exeter demanded. He could not address her 'Your Majesty'.

She sighed. "Don't ask me about that."

"It must be mine." He knitted his brows in concentration. "I know that."

Anne rose to her feet. "That is your problem, Lord Exeter."

He stood up as well. "Before you addressed me by my name."

"I do not remember such trivial events." However, images of their nights were teeming in her brain with colossal richness, imprinted forever, heating her blood like an intense fever.

Sentimentality tinged his visage. "You called me Hal."

"Have you become a woman?" Anne jeered with a brusque laugh. "Melodramatics is for women. Ah, I must not forget that highborn men such as yourself cannot resist overstating every aspect of themselves: how long and why we are on earth for, how rare and unfair their failures are because we are so very noble and so mighty. Melodrama always constitutes their day."

"Enough, Anne." Exeter looked towards a window, where the gardens were dark, indicating that dusk was falling. "If necessary, I shall tear the truth out of you."

"Damn you, Hal! I'll not talk to you in such a mean-spirited manner."

Propelled by her rising temper, Queen Anne strode over to the door. She would have quitted the room if Courtenay did not stalk her from behind. He gripped her forearms, spinning her around so her back was to the door, and his formidable strength imprisoned her there.

Exeter's breathing tickled her forehead. "After my return to court, you sought meetings with me and bewitched me into romance. Did you feign love for me to seduce me _again_?"

"Release me," Anne commanded, holding his gaze. "Or I'll scream."

"No, you will not," he continued, pulling back not to hurt her growing bump. "Nobody will believe that there is only innocent friendship between us if someone finds us together."

The queen relaxed, no longer under his weight. "God in heaven, you underestimate me! I'll say that you tried to force yourself upon me, and you might be executed."

At last, Exeter ran out of patience. "Scream, then! But if we are discovered together, I'll ensure that we will both pay for our entertainments, despite your marriage to the king."

She was also close to losing her control. "I hate you!"

Her words struck him like the crack of a whip. "Really?"

Anne could scarcely react before Exeter kissed her, deeply and passionately. She did not respond, but allowed him to probe her mouth with his tongue that bumped into her clenched teeth. Yet, the more the marquess kissed her, the denser with desire her blood was becoming. Her arms looped around his neck, while his left arm hugged her. His right hand was caressing her abdomen, and an unfamiliar sense of security and safety encompassed her, like a blanket of warmth.

"I've missed you so much," Exeter resumed speaking as his lips feasted on her neck. "There is no other woman like you; Gertrude is nothing compared to you."

This goaded her into fighting his embrace. "You should have left your cow, then."

"I am a Catholic." He labored to prevent the queen from escaping the circle of his arms. "The Catholic Church forbids all divorces, and there are no grounds for annulment."

Anne launched a condemnatory tirade. "Oh, I did dream of being your wife! You could desert your ugly Gertrude and convert into Protestantism. Then we would have been married. But you chose her! You have no one to blame but yourself for my abandonment of you."

Exeter explained, "Religion is not something that you can change like clothes."

The queen pushed him aside violently. "Your folly is the reason for my unhappiness."

"You wed His Majesty only to ensure your family's enrichment and advancement at court. I do not loathe you for this marriage because I see clearly how upset you are."

She leaned against the door. "Oh, you are so pathetic."

Exeter smiled, as though these were words from a sweet song. "You are disappointed in me. But disappointment is the seed-ground out of which grow the fairest flowers."

"Such a cheery answer, but I have to go. Stay away from me."

"I will, for the sake of _our baby_." His hand flew to her belly, but she removed it.

Anne shook her head. "No, my lord. It's King Henry's heir."

"The perspiration standing in big drops on your brow proves that you are lying, Anne."

His observational skills irked her. "You are a cad!"

"I shall pray for the boy." His laugh was quiet, but victorious. "Actually, our son will be a Plantagenet. He will carry on the York glorious legacy instead of the Tudor one. Be at ease: I've dealt with all those who might have suspected something about our amours."

"You have always been resourceful, Hal," she lauded.

"I've covered all the tracks well. I pray that Gertrude knows nothing."

"Can she?" Alarm made the queen tremble.

He rubbed his chin. "Gertrude is cleverer than she seems to be. I'll watch her."

"King Henry will not understand anything: I seduced him to bed me a few times after I had begun suspecting my condition. They will all think that the child will come a bit early."

"Your mother – not even you – have thought everything through."

"Leave me be, my lord!" Fresh tears stinging her eyes, Anne opened the door and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. She then disappeared down the staircase.

The Marquess of Exeter stared into space. Now he was certain that Anne Bassett carried his child, in spite of her silence. He loved this woman, and today, he had felt the gorgeous presence of another being that resided within her, and when he had touched it briefly, butterflies of joy flied wildly through his soul. However, he would never be able to wed Anne and raise their baby as his. _At least, our son will be the next King of England. The Tudor male line will die out._

§§§

Queen Anne nearly sprinted through the long corridor. She endeavored to conceal the tears that blurred her vision, but they rushed down her cheeks unhindered. She would never again consent to have any meeting with the Marquess of Exeter because it was too dangerous for them, and because she had to protect herself from any drama for the sake of her child.

Nearing the great hall, Anne sped up. The queen had to swiftly make her way to her quarters so that neither her handmaidens nor the courtiers saw her distressed and unchaperoned. Despite her quite heavy belly, she ran until her lungs could burst, so she kneeled down, panting.

"Fortunately, I've found you first. It is such a shame to see you in this state."

Her mother's frosty voice injured the queen like a dart. "What are you doing here?"

Lady Honor Grenville approached her daughter. "I went to find you before the king or your ladies could have discovered your absence. I've discovered you sprawled on the floor like a tavern wench and crying lakes of stupid tears. We are lucky that only I see you at the moment."

Honor realized that her daughter's voice was scratched from heavy crying, like a broken instrument, but the last thing she now wished was to comfort Anne. Unlike her, the queen failed to suppress her soul sickness, caused by her mother's cruel indifference to her heartache.

Accusations leaked out of Anne's mouth. "You have always cared more for what I can give you than for my happiness. That is why you pushed me into Exeter's arms again, making me not only a wench, but also a criminal who is going to pass her lover's child off as–"

Honor grabbed her daughter and rudely hoisted the queen to her feet. "Shut up, Anne!" Her gaze frantic, she glanced around and breathed out a sigh of relief at the confirmation that no one was eavesdropping upon. "You shall do you duty to our family regardless of your wishes."

"That is treason!" Anne sobbed. "And what if our secret is unveiled?"

Honor shook her slightly. "Calm down! Or we will spend the next night in the Tower!"

Nevertheless, Anne cried, "Perhaps it would be better than playing our charades."

"Do you want us to die?" Her mother slapped Anne to sober her. "What about your baby?"

The aggression worked: the queen ceased weeping. She darted a contemptuous glare at the older woman. "I shall pretend until the rest of my life, but I shall burn in hell for this."

"His Majesty cannot sire healthy sons, so you are giving him the most precious gift that will save England from civil wars. You will create our own paradise on earth for our great family!"

"What?" Anne's tone was that of incredulity. "You do not believe in God, do you?"

Honor pointed a finger at her stomach. "I believe more in the power of the Roman Pope than in Protestantism, for I've started reconsidering my once Protestant beliefs."

Her daughter's eyes widened. "What? But we are reformers!"

"It matters not, Anne. Now only the baby living inside you, my daughter, is important. We have climbed so high! Your baby will deliver us to the heights of power."

Tears brimmed in the queen's eyes. "If only Hal had been a free man, I would gladly have married him, lived with him in the countryside, and given him a brood of children."

Honor grabbed her daughter again. "Don't be so foolish! Exeter is only _a Marquess_ despite his York blood, but you are married to _the King of England_! Your future is golden!"

Anne shook her mother's hands away. "You are so twisted by the lust for power."

"Don't you dare meet with Exeter again. Don't put the life of your child in jeopardy!"

"I shall not. Not because of your order – I do not want my baby to die. Do you know why I feel so?" Anne put her right hand to her chest, pressing her left one to the abdomen. "It is the child fathered by the man who has become the whole world to me. Hal is everything to me!"

Honor glared at her. "Have you become a love-struck idiot, Anne?"

The queen continued, "I despise King Henry, and I pity all of his wives! I admire Exeter, and he is always on my mind. I cannot explain my feelings for Hal – perhaps it is even love." She patted her stomach. "Hal's baby must live! I shall not see its father again out of fear."

Her mother's face twisted in repugnance. "This funny melodramatics is for jackasses!"

Lady Grenville began walking down the hallway, dragging the queen behind herself.

§§§

Several minutes elapsed after the women had departed. The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk appeared as they returned from their dinner with the monarch and encountered the Marquess of Exeter. The Suffolk spouses had been permitted to come back to court several weeks ago.

"Hal, my friend," Charles Brandon addressed the man. "We have been hunting all over the palace for you to join His Majesty's small private party, where our wives could shine."

"I'm sorry," Exeter said wearily. "I would not have been able to attend the festivities."

"What has happened?" Catherine entered the conversation.

Exeter made up a realistic story. "I went to the market in the afternoon. Bandits attacked me and stole all of my money and jewelry. I'm fortunate to be alive and still be dressed. If those thieves had taken my clothes, I would have been unable to return to the palace."

Horror painted itself upon the countenances of the Suffolk couple.

"Such a terrible adventure," Catherine assessed.

"We must inform the king!" Suffolk proposed.

"No," Exeter protected. "I'm unscratched, so there is no need to worry His Majesty." He grinned. "Charles, I'd like to play _Primero_ with you, provided that your wife does not object."

The duchess approved. "Go whenever you need, gentlemen."

Exeter jested, "Thank you, Madame. Charles, there is no amorous touch in playing cards, but you are cloaked in a halo of romance whenever you are near your glorious wife."

Charles Brandon tilted his head back and laughed like a boy. Catherine smiled stiffly, for it was uncomfortable for her to listen to the Marquess of Exeter, who accompanied the ruler and her husband on their parties, where, according to gossip, they all indulged shamelessly in sin.

§§§

The Duchess of Suffolk headed to the Suffolk apartments with a thoughtful look upon her face, her spirit twisted with fear and revulsion at the thought of King Henry.

Today's dinner in the royal private chambers marked a turning point in her life. It became perfectly clear that King Henry lusted after Catherine so earnestly that he was ready to throw his friendship with Charles to the winds and make her his mistress. Even yesterday, she had hoped that the monarch's heated glances, which she had glimpsed from time to time, were a testimony to her beauty. However, the ruler's occasional touches during their dance proved his intentions.

As she rounded the corner to the Brandon suite, a fever of mortal terror throbbed behind her mask of blankness. Her union with the Duke of Suffolk had turned out to be far from what she had envisaged in her girlish reveries. However, Catherine had never planned to betray Charles and still loved him. But no woman could refuse a king, and now her future hang in the balance.

"I'm going to bed," Catherine told her maids as she entered her quarters. "I don't need your help. I'll undress on my own." She then went to the bedroom and shut the doors.

On the verge of hysteria, she grabbed a marble table with both hands, attempting to still her spinning head. It did not help, and fear percolated every layer of her consciousness. The veneer of composure cracked, and with a howl, she smashed her fists into the table.

"No!" Catherine buried her face into her hands. "I cannot become a whore!"

Her legs wobbling, she staggered to a nearby chair and plopped into it.

Losing the track of time, Catherine wept and wept. Could she become a royal harlot, or should she speak to Charles and beseech him to escape from the Tudor court to one of their estates? The lewd monarch, who could easily confiscate everything, had granted the dukedom of Suffolk and Brandon's wealth to him. Perhaps their tyrannical sovereign would view Charles as an enemy lest Catherine repudiated the royal advances. Would Charles die on the block, then?

Her musings were interrupted by male footsteps. They paused at the doorway.

"We played only one party, and then I left."

"You are not dead," Catherine murmured with immeasurable relief.

Charles blinked in bafflement. "What are you saying, Cathy? Are you all right?"

His wife bounced to her feet and rushed to him, as if he were her lifesaver. Instigated by the impulse to check that he was safe and real, Catherine tiptoed and wrapped her arms around his neck, forgetting the numerous months of coldness between them. As she parted her lips to let his tongue to slip through to explore the warm recesses of her mouth, Charles inclined his head to kiss her deeply and snaked his arms around her waist, while Catherine melted against him.

"You are stunning," the Duke of Suffolk whispered as he finally pulled away, holding her in his embrace. "Now you look as serene and confident as you did when we married, Cathy. My love, please keep that look. You were so hostile towards me for so long… I could hardly bear it."

Catherine started replying, but her spouse cut her off before she could say anything else.

"Don't speak," he begged. "Don't utter a sound. I fear that we can lose each other again."

She complied, but for another reason. The duchess did not know what to say to her husband. When he behaved like this, she so wanted him to never change, to always be that sweet, charming, and handsome man at his prime, who had confessed to loving her as they had once made love in a moonlit clearing near their country manor. If only time could cease its forward motion…

"I love you so." His warm breath brushed her earlobe as he vowed, "I'll never disappoint you again, Catherine. I shall never do anything like I did to those poor pilgrims."

"You think it is possible?" she inquired innocently.

"Yes." Some of her apprehension reflected in Catherine's eyes, so he reassured, "Of course. I shall do anything for you. You have to believe me that all will be well between us."

She reminded, "Once you promised to love me forever. To love me even more than you did Mary Tudor, your previous wife. Do you still feel the same way? Think before replying."

He swallowed reflexively. Mary's words replayed in his head, winds of the past articulating his dead wife's diagnosis of his inconstancy that she had hurtled at him a few weeks before her death of consumption. " _You do not know the meaning of the word, Charles. You can love, perhaps for a year, a month, a day, even for an hour."_ This still scraped at his mind like long nails.

The duke glanced away, then back at his spouse. "I still genuinely love you, Cathy."

Catherine put her hand onto his chest over his heart. "Sometimes, your actions show that there is another soul inside of you, one that could change the person you are, and that if your liege lord commanded you something, you would gladly comply, killing at his behest."

For a moment, he contemplated the matter. "I'm the king's loyal subject, so I must fulfill his orders. But it is not related to our marriage, my darling. Now I want to speak only about us."

Catherine stepped back, as if to put a distance between them. "What if His Majesty enjoins you to leave me so that he could make me his lover? What would you do, then?"

Her question seemed so silly that he laughed. "Trust me it is impossible."

With a sardonic laugh, the duchess rolled her eyes at him out of indignation. In whatever direction she turned her musings, Catherine was faced with disconcerting possibilities. _Charles will probably not believe me if I tell him that his dear Henry wants me,_ Catherine bemoaned.

"Cathy, what is tormenting you? Why are these verbal games?"

His wife turned to him, her smile tantalizingly lovely. "Show your love for me."

Charles breached the gap between them before leaning close to her. "For the life of me I do not understand why you doubt Henry. However, it matters not: only you and I matter, and now we are together, our unquenchable love for each other is burning in our hearts."

All at once, Charles kissed his duchess with all the pent-up passion and longing he had been holding back for so long. Breathing heavily, and eagerly exploring one another's bodies through the brocades and silks, they gasped in delight when their clothes finally tumbled to the floor. In an oak bed canopied with crimson satin, the valance ornamented with Tudor roses, they fervently made love until their skin heaved with exertion, until their bones almost turned to jelly.

Catherine pulled away from him and stared into semi-darkness. Most of the candles had extinguished, and moonlight, filtering into the room through open shutters, illumined the area.

"What is wrong?" Charles propped himself on the elbow.

"Nothing." She pressed her forehead against his, and drew a shaky breath.

Their lovemaking continued and turned so frantic that Catherine grew almost frightened. So intense that no amount of poetical phrasing would ever be enough to describe her marvelous sensations. His kisses invaded her thoughts, putting an end to her murky considerations.

"God," Charles muttered, tangling his hands into her hair. "You are mine again, and anyone else who stands in our way will be removed and punished for interference."

In the next moment, Catherine noticed two red spots upon his neck and guessed why they were there. Therewith, she climbed out of bed, then groped for her night robe and donned it.

Heartbroken, she blustered, "You were with another woman mere hours ago! This is how you love me! You are incapable of immortal love you promised me again and again! You love too many women and live your life to the fullest. I'm only one of your many bedmates!"

Suffolk panicked. "Cathy, please let me talk to you!"

His wife fixed her icy pools of arctic water upon him. "There is no explanation for infidelity. A mere sight of you is fanning the flames of my anger. I no longer have a husband."

"No," he protested, watching her stomp away from the bed. "We love each other."

Stopping near the door, Catherine half-turned to him. "No love can remain profound if one of the spouses constantly shakes it. Charles, for you love is like an extra garment that you put on together with your sumptuous attire. It is a mere addition to your status and riches, but not part of you woven into your being. You are not capable of giving me the love I need."

She vacated the chamber, but Charles did not follow her. "It is my entire fault."

The Duke of Suffolk plunged into perpetual blackness of anguish and loneliness without his wife, for Catherine would not forgive him again. He had betrayed her with countless women, but she had granted him her clemency, crying but soon believing his oaths of love and his apologies. _Finally, I've lost Catherine. Now all is different: she metamorphosed from a demure, naïve young wife into a hardheaded woman whose faith in love I've destroyed,_ Suffolk summed up wordlessly _._

At the same time, Catherine Brandon was surrounded by her maids in the antechamber.

"Prepare another room for me," the duchess instructed.

The women nodded and went to execute her order. Only one of them stayed.

Catherine snapped irritably, "What?"

The girl endured her mistress' piercing glower. "Your Grace, there is a letter and a gift for you. One of the king's grooms brought them. I hid everything from His Grace of Suffolk."

The duchess nodded. "You did the right thing. Give them to me and leave."

Left alone, Catherine opened the purple-brocaded purse and extracted a heart-shaped brooch with a large scarlet ruby in the center and a multitude of tiny diamonds set around it. It was an awesome thing that would fit well with her many gowns. Now the perspective of wearing this gift appeared a wonderful idea and a suitable punishment for her promiscuous husband.

She retrieved a letter from the purse. After examining the Tudor seal that was authentic, she unrolled it. The courtship that was being imposed upon her was quick and yet surreptitious, the pleading eloquent and tender. Yet, Catherine was not happy to receive it, but now she found the idea of having a romance with the king tolerable, for her relationship with Charles was over.

 _My pretty Lady Catherine,_

 _Today's evening was full of my longing for you. I could not tell you how much I adore you. Your eyes so enigmatic, your lips so red, and I cannot banish them from my head. Your dainty feet were_ _moving in line with the music and with my feet._ _Everything about you was divine._

 _Your beauty and your caring nature compare to nothing else in the whole world. I want to be with you, my lady, and I miss you every day. To be with you regardless of all bonds, regardless of our obligations to someone else. My passion might break even the most meaningful bonds._

 _I beg of you, accept my gift, my beauty. I hope we will never be apart. Hear my heartbeat and feel its rhythm if you want me – all will be done in secret. Will you be mine?_

 _Henry Rex_

Catherine emitted a sigh. "The king's strong passion taints his friendship with Charles." Her umbrage at the duke's misconduct channeled her energy into making a radical decision. "Can I take this step? Why not? If Charles can sleep with many whores, why I cannot?!"

Putting the paper to the candle, she watched until the ashes remained. Squeezing the purse that contained the brooch, she hastened out, hoping to sleep at least a little tonight.

* * *

 ** _October 29, 1538, Elsyng Palace, the town of Enfield, north London, England_**

Enfield, small and quiet, was sleeping; the lights in the houses were off. The first streaks of sunrise in the sky heralded that soon many would rise from their beds to attend the matins in local churches. Only two men were wide awake, meeting on the central town square.

"Take it," Sir Nicholas Carew spoke in accented Italian. "Give this message strictly to His Holiness. He will accept you as soon as you say that you arrived from me."

The lad, who stood next to Carew, bowed. "This will be done, Signor."

Carew eyed the swarthy young man with distrust. The previous messenger was Giorgio, whom the Pope had dispatched to work for Sir William Brereton. In absolute secrecy, Giorgio had aided Brereton and then Carew to exchange messages with the Vatican. However, two months earlier, Giorgio had not returned to England, and Carew feared that he had been intercepted. Thus, Carew had found an Italian who lived in England to carry his new missive to Italy.

Carew warned, "If you fail me, I shall murder you wherever you are."

His companion stated, "I'm a true Catholic, and I'll not fail His Holiness."

Satisfied, Carew let out a faint smile. "May God bless you in this journey!"

Unbeknownst to them, Lady Elizabeth Holland watched them from around the corner of the building in a nearby lane. A month ago, the Duke of Norfolk had received a codified letter from King François, informing them that the Pope's main agent in England was Carew. Since then, Elizabeth spied upon Carew every day, and Norfolk intended to catch the traitor red-handed.

 _It will be my triumph,_ Bess grinned to herself. She had dreamed of being a heroine of some espionage story or emerging triumphant from a perilous situation. The messenger jumped into the saddle and rode off towards the road to London, where Norfolk's men would surely arrest him.

Her daydreams distracted Elizabeth from the object of her surveillance. Carew spotted her head popping from behind the corner and rushed to her like a male hyena, so she tried to flee.

"You will not run away!" Carew shouted as he followed her down the lane.

"I will!" Bess promised, with eyes moist from tears.

"Damn you, Norfolk's slut!" His voice sounded closer, so she sped up.

Three or four times, Elizabeth bumped into several pedestrians who were on their way to churches for the morning prayer, but she had no time to listen to their grumblings. In another lane, she paused, breathless. As she heard Carew's shouts, Bess resumed running until she felt as though she could not go a step further, but the fate of the whole country was at stake.

How Elizabeth climbed the zigzag path out of the central square to the suburbs she never knew. Remembering tales about heroes, she felt thrilled about the story of her own exploits. As she heard the nickering of horses and Norfolk's baritone, Bess ran in that direction.

"Your Grace of Norfolk!" Bess cried at the top of her lungs. "Carew is following me!"

A moment later, the drum of hooves was much closer, although a snatched glance across the street told her nothing, but Carew was stomping towards them. At last, he had found Bess, but he halted, torn between the impulse to finish her off and the necessity to escape. The instinct of self-preservation won, and, glaring at her with aversion, Carew vanished into a maze of streets.

Leading a squad of soldiers, the Duke of Norfolk appeared on his destrier, draped in green silk. Standing in the middle of the street, Bess thought that, garbed from head to toe in armor, the duke looked heavy and inert, but also mighty and imposing, so dear to her heart.

Norfolk rode to Elizabeth. "Where did he go?"

His mistress pointed to the left. "That way! That street!"

"Stay here, Bess," decreed the duke. "You have done all you could."

Leaving two soldiers to safeguard her, Norfolk hastily departed at the helm of the search party. He sent his men in all directions, keeping the bulk of his force with him as he traveled to the street that Elizabeth had showed. Soon commotion escalated, and people started rushing from the church situated on an adjacent lane. Sounds of gunfire, and Carew's screams resonated through the air like those of a dying animal, mingling with the cacophony of folk's shrieks.

Followed by a brief moment of silence, Norfolk roared, "You will see the king today!"

In a matter of minutes, the duke returned to where Elizabeth awaited him. At his sign, she was a given a mare, and two guards assisted her in climbing into the saddle. On the way to the palace, Bess Holland rode behind Norfolk at the beginning of the procession; Carew, manacled to the horse with chains, was guarded as heavily as only the worst criminal could be.

In an hour, Elizabeth and Norfolk sat on a wooden bench in the palace garden. In silence, they admired the scenery: the red, orange, yellow, and brown leaves of trees shivered and dropped off with a beautiful dance against the wind. Turning to her lover, Bess detected in his eyes the great respect she had never seen there before, and a sense of serenity overwhelmed her. All her adventures seemed distant, as if they were simple shapes depicted on canvas by a painter.

"You are not harmed, Bess?" Norfolk scrutinized her.

His paramour flashed a smile. "Your Grace worries needlessly."

"Your life was in jeopardy." His voice was layered with self-blame. "I should not have let you go there. We were always close, but I lost you because Carew created several false trails. If you did not scream, we might not have found you, and then he would have killed you."

Her fingers caressed his gloved hand. "Now you have Carew under lock, and I'm all right. Will we take Carew's and Cromwell's letters to the king? They must pay for their crimes."

"Yes, Bess. Both Carew and Cromwell will be in the Tower before sundown."

"You have won the war against Cromwell, Your Grace."

Norfolk sniggered demonically. "That low-born son of a bitch shall pay for his arrogance and his other misdeeds against us – the old English nobility of the realm."

There was something else on Bess' mind. "Did you capture the messenger?"

He frowned. "Now my men are looking for him everywhere. All the roads from Enfield are blocked; I shall find him and throw him to His Majesty's feet."

Her hand squeezed his. "With luck, it will happen soon."

"We must know what Carew sent to the Pope." Norfolk was a Catholic, but he was more loyal to his sovereign because his own fortunes depended on the monarch's favor.

Taking her hand, the duke pulled Elizabeth up to her feet, and they walked into the palace.

§§§

"What does Norfolk want?" King Henry seated himself into an armchair.

"His Grace said that it is an urgent matter," answered William Sandys, Baron Sandys of the Vyne. He served as Lord Chamberlain of the royal household and was Henry's favorite.

The ruler crossed his legs lazily and locked his hands behind his head. "It will not take me much time to speak to him. I'm intending to go hunting with Suffolk and Exeter."

This morning, the monarch had awoken with a feeling of immense buoyancy such as he had not experienced in years. Since the days when Anne Boleyn had been pregnant with Elizabeth. At last, he was on the road to fame of the Tudor dynasty! Soon his queen would birth him his precious prince! With his son in the royal cradle, he would devote his energies to the completion of his reforms and to his amorous escapades, while also having a happy family life.

His gaze fixed at a window, Henry enjoyed the view of the firmament that was brilliantly blue, not a leaden one, unlike it had been last week. The rays of the sun were streaming brightly through the windows, gilding the ornately carved furniture of the king's private chamber with thin lines of gold. His future would be golden and glorious, just as William the Conqueror's life had been, and the advent of the new summer in his life would be associated with his son's birth.

"Soon I shall have a son," Henry drawled. "My son! My Edward!"

The other man nodded. "God bless Her Majesty and the baby in her womb!"

The herald declared, "The Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Surrey."

The Howards entered with such unprecedented confidence and pomp, as if others were their subjects who had to prostrate themselves before them. They approached their liege lord's armchair and sketched bows, their countenances like those of victorious Roman generals.

"Quickly," Henry barked. "I have no time. I'm late for hunting."

William Sandys bowed to his sovereign and tactfully left.

Norfolk stepped forward. "Two traitors among your councilors are working for the Pope. My son, Henry, and I have intercepted one of them in the town a couple of hours ago."

Under the monarch's piercing stare, the Duke of Norfolk spoke for a long time. The duke modified the story: Bess Holland had overheard Carew's conversation with Thomas Audley, Lord Chancellor of England. Audley and Carew had discussed the Pope's instruction to have as few monastic houses dissolved as possible, and Audley had intended to save still intact abbeys. The calculative Norfolk strove to get rid of Audley, for with Cromwell gone, he would possibly get the position of Lord Chancellor. King François as his source of information was not mentioned.

Norfolk moved to the closure. "Lady Holland apprised me of her findings, and I ordered her to spy upon Sir Nicolas until she could learn who sent his letters to Rome. Bess warned me about Carew's meeting with his messenger today in the town, and we captured them both."

The duke was exceedingly lucky today. His men had taken prisoner the fugitive when he had endeavored to flee from Enfield. They had dragged the poor man to Norfolk an hour before the audience with the monarch, and now the messenger was kept with Carew in the same cell.

"Gods be damned!" Henry roared in a diabolic tone. "That Pope Paul is not a holy man, but a murderer! He dares call me a heretical king! I'm aware that he is encouraging foreign monarchs to organize a crusade against me so as to depose me from the throne and make Reginald Pole King of England. He must have bribed Carew and Audley to betray and get rid of me!"

Norfolk and Surrey barely repressed their smiles, maintaining stony demeanor.

The ruler bounced to his feet. "I want them hanged, drawn, and quartered!" He thumped a fist into his own chest as he paced back and forth. "Have them tortured for information!"

The Earl of Surrey interjected, "Your Majesty, there are several interesting letters in Carew's correspondence. Some of them were written by Sir William Brereton."

Stopping near the window, Henry gasped in disbelief. "How?"

"They are here." Surrey strode to his liege lord and handed to him a pile of letters.

His face red from anger, the monarch seated himself at the desk. As he grabbed the first paper, Norfolk and Surrey grinned, for they had put a special missive on top of the others. Some of them were the letters that the King of France's spies had intercepted more than a year ago.

The more Henry read, the more his nervous pallor intensified.

 _William, the truest son of God,_

 _It is your sacred duty to annihilate the Boleyn witch. If you fail to kill her, then eliminate her by some other means. Even though the sainted Queen Catherine is dead, the strumpet must not be on the throne of England for long. The harlot's place is in hell, and you will send her there._

 _I bless you for this important mission. The Lord is with you!_

 _Pope Paul III_

A ghastly silence ensued. The monarch gazed back at Surrey and Norfolk, a wealth of conflicted emotions playing across his countenance as he contemplated whether there was truth in the letter. In his eyes, Anne was a treacherous adulteress, one who merited sufferings and death, but it did not mean that someone else, especially the Bishop of Rome, could sanction her regicide.

Henry's fury was now immeasurable. "Anne is a condemned traitor, but only I could sign her death warrant! No one else has the right to assassinate royalty. Regicide is the gravest crime! Yet, Brereton received commands from that unchristian creature from Rome!"

Surrey spoke up boldly. "Brereton testified against my cousin. But what if he lied about his affair with her in order to comply with the Pope's order to dispose of her?"

Norfolk admired his son's bravery. "Your Majesty, we need investigation."

"That Valois courtesan is guilty!" bellowed the ruler, throwing the papers to the floor.

Henry skimmed his eyes through another letter. His paleness deepened, his lips trembled.

 _Nicholas, my son,_

 _That Boleyn hellspawn, whom King Henry calls Princess Elizabeth, must not remain his heir. Our most gracious, great, and trueborn Princess Mary must be reinstated to the line of succession. We have waited for too long, and it is clear that the king will not rectify his mistakes._

 _I allow you to do away with the little witch Elizabeth in any way, but quietly._

 _You have my blessings, just as the deceased martyr, William, always had._

 _Pope Paul III_

"Paul is the devil incarnate!" the king exploded, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "I'd love to break his neck or to have him boiled alive, watching all his agony."

Norfolk touched upon the topic that worried Henry the most. "The security measures in the palace and especially in Princess Elizabeth's apartments were toughened."

Henry snarled, "If even a hair falls from her head, I shall have your heads."

Surrey offered, "I may become the princess' constant chaperon for her safety."

At first surprised, Norfolk approved of his son's proposal. "My Henry is good with children. Her Highness is his cousin, so we are honored to play this role in her life."

"Surrey, watch my daughter every waking hour." The ruler's voice now sounded calmer.

Norfolk's son inclined his head. "I shall protect the princess with my life."

After a visual exchange with his son, Norfolk continued, "Sire, we also have something that was intercepted by my men. It is Cromwell's letter to Nicholas Carew."

"What?" a shaken Henry gasped. "Cromwell is a reformer; they are foes with Carew."

While crossing to the desk, the duke ruminated, "People should not take things at face value. To survive and succeed, we have to read between the lines and behind the masks."

Norfolk brought Henry a parchment written out and signed by Thomas Cromwell. As the king recognized his chief minister's stamp, he unrolled the paper with impatient hands.

 _Sir Nicholas,_

 _Indeed, we have a common enemy and must ally against her. I shall arrange everything to bring the woman down, while you and the Duke of Suffolk will do your part of the job._

 _Each of us should act according to our plan. Burn it for heaven's sake._

 _Thomas C._

"Carew is an idiot," Surrey interposed. "He forgot to destroy it or deliberately returned it to Cromwell. I have to confess that our informant from Cromwell's household found it."

"The Howard network of spies," the ruler grouched.

"For Your Majesty's safety," Norfolk defended himself and his son.

The perplexed king pondered over the implications of these revelations. An eerie silence encircled him like dark forms of demonic wolves, and a freezing horror percolated his veins. Anne could not be innocent, but his long-forgotten conscience appealed to the deeply concealed part of him that was still unsullied by blood. It called upon him to investigate the matter, evoking in his mind images of Anne beseeching him to believe in her fidelity to him and in her love for him.

King Henry, though cocooned in incredulity, approbated, "Take Carew and the messenger to the Tower. Go to London and have Cromwell and Audley apprehended." His voice cracked as he added, "Arrest Suffolk and take him to the Tower as well. His wife will remain at court."

"As you command," Norfolk replied. "Something else?"

The ruler glared askance at the Howards. "The whore must be guilty, but I want to know the truth about these letters. We will launch investigations into Brereton's, Carew's, Cromwell's, and Anne's cases. But if you lied to me, you shall have the most ignominious ends."

After a brief pause, the ruler enjoined, "Dispatch a squad of armed men to the estates of Lord Worcester. His wife, Lady Elizabeth Worcester, must be arrested for questioning. She was the main informant against that Boleyn slut, so she will have to give her testimony again."

The monarch's mind drifted to the days when Elizabeth Somerset née Browne, Countess of Worcester, had been his mistress during the summer of 1535. As her husband was not faithful to her, she had not objected when Henry had showed his carnal interest in her. His dalliance with Lady Worcester had lasted only for three months, but the king had eminently enjoyed her body. When Anne had learned about their affair, the force of her fury had unleashed like a whip.

Norfolk nodded. "Should Lady Worcester be jailed in the Tower?"

Henry tipped his head. "Yes, even if she has to spend there for the rest of her life."

"As Your Majesty wishes," the duke professed.

"Our conscience is clear, sire," assured Surrey. "These letters are not forgeries."

The Duke of Norfolk affirmed, "Our family has always served the Crown with honor."

Henry waved them away with a nervous gesture. "Leave my sight."

Bowing, Norfolk and Surrey quitted the chamber, satisfied with the outcome.

Berserk rage reared inside Henry like a marauder, his inner realm ablaze with it. It did not crystallize into aggression towards his subjects and the furniture only because he was depleted of energy. He simply sat in his chair, motionless and severe, like a marble column. _An endless chain of days and nights, full of sorrows, terrors, and doubts, awaits me ahead,_ Henry lamented.

§§§

"I want to depart from court," Jane Seymour said to herself as she lay down on a bed.

After the annulment of her marriage, Jane had returned to Wulfhall. For some reason, she had been recalled back to court on the king's orders. She had implored her former husband to let her join a nunnery, but her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Every day was interminably long, but nights were the worst time when Jane's demons, real and imaginary, preyed upon her mind.

Never before had she been as lonely as Jane was at present. All of her relatives had been banished from court permanently, so she had lost her dear sister Dorothy, who was her true friend. Only her brother, Edward Seymour, and his wife, Anne, remained at court, but Jane had renounced her filial bonds with them the moment when she had seen the king making love to that woman. In addition, the monarch had prohibited Jane from contacting with Mary and Elizabeth Tudor.

Not being part of the new Queen Anne's household, Jane did not live with her ladies-in-waiting. Distant from the royal apartments, her small room was cozy; oak furniture was simple and elegant. The wall hangings, portraying the Virgin and saints, were soothing to her nerves.

At the urgent knock on the door, she jumped, even though she had not expected it.

"Come in." She saw the door swing in with some force behind it.

In the doorway stood an attractive man, tall and long-limbed. His doublet of black damask was embroidered with silver thread; his hose of black silk emphasized his leanness. Tinged with melancholy, his chiseled features were more commonly seen on stony expressions of statues than in life. His face looked a bit hollow, and dark circles lay under his dark-fringed blue eyes, set off against his short brown hair, hidden beneath a black cap with one white ostrich plume.

"Lord Northumberland?" Jane exclaimed, in a tone of unwelcome surprise.

Henry Percy closed the door, but remained near it. "Good day, Madame."

She remembered the etiquette well. "You cannot be here; I'm an unmarried woman."

"No one cares about your reputation, Lady Seymour." Immediately, arrows of guilt for his sharp tone and for the reminder of her plight hit him in the region of his heart.

She chastened, "I do not deserve this insult. And my life is none of your business!"

"I do apologize," he replied dulcetly.

Jane tumbled into a chair. "You must leave before someone sees you here. I do not need anyone to think that we are lovers. If this gossip circulates, it will be more than I can bear."

Percy put his dilemma into words. "My lady, I arrived at the palace yesterday at the king's command. On the same day, His Majesty summoned me to his presence and announced his decision. I do not wish to hurt you, but I was ordered to marry you."

She exhaled bewilderment. "What? The king would never have done that to me!"

Leaning against the door, Percy granted her a compassionate glance. "Does our liege lord care about the feelings of those whose duty is to fulfill his whims and to stroke his ego tenderly, like a master strokes their cat? You are fortunate that he did not do something worse to you."

"No," moaned Jane, and her voice fractured into whimpers. "I cannot… I cannot wed any other man! I cannot become the wife of Anne Boleyn's former sweetheart!"

 _God, that is impossible!_ Jane screamed in her mind. _That cannot be real!_ Yet, she could see Henry Percy, his expression woebegone, in front of herself, and he spoke to her in a firm, yet rueful, tone. Jane no longer considered Anne her enemy and a whore, feeling rather ashamed of her role in Anne's downfall, although she had believed in Anne's guilt back then. However, to marry the very man who was rumored to still worship Anne was beyond Jane's endurance.

"Madame, believe me that it is the last thing I want to do. However, as my wife, Lady Mary Talbot, passed away, the king commands that I wed you. He must have decided to join us in holy matrimony to punish me for my past with Anne and you for your failure to birth his son."

She wiped her sweaty palms on her dress, attempting to calm her frazzled nerves. "I cannot obey! No, I'll escape from court and enter a convent, where no one will find me."

"That would be a stupid course of action: the king might send you to the block lest you rebel against him. It took me the whole night to calm down before I resigned myself to my fate and came to your room so as to talk in private, away from the court's prying eyes."

Rising to her feet, Jane made her way to the table and poured a goblet of water.

Having drained its contents, the former queen commented, "I recall today is the Feast of Saint Narcissus of Jerusalem. It is a mere coincidence that His Majesty must have announced his unfair decision to us on this day, but it is also God's evidence of his extreme selfishness."

"The king is worse than mythological Narcissus," growled Percy, and spots of ire dotted his cheeks. "The proud Narcissus scorned those who adored him, causing some to commit suicide to prove their devotion to his beauty. Our sovereign compels everyone to dance to his egocentric tune, terrorizing those who show even the slightest displeasure or disagreement."

She twirled the goblet in her fingers. "It would have been better if Henry had killed me."

The Earl of Northumberland did not move, watching his bride with pity and kindness. "Don't be downhearted, Madame. Wise people say that greatest successes are won through failures."

Shaking her head, Jane plodded over to a chair, her head spinning in sickening circles of the reality she struggled to accept. Her face whitened to the shade of the feather, and she fainted on the floor. Instantly, Percy rushed to her, carried Jane to the bed, and placed her there.

Percy stood in front of her bed. "We are all cursed. Anne, you, and all other women who ever catch that Tudor _leviathan_ 's eye. I am cursed because I cannot live without my Anne and have to marry you. Fate has such a bizarre sense of humor: you and I have to be together." His thoughts wandered to the former Lady Boleyn, the love of his life – now Anne de Valois.

Jane had already awakened, but she kept her eyes shut, pretending that she was unconscious. She agreed with him that the Creator must hate her for something monstrous, which she or her ancestors could have perpetrated, forcing her to live through numerous circles of hell, like in Dante Alighieri's famous work. _Even though it sounds unbelievable, Jane Seymour and Henry Percy ought to become husband and wife to survive in the Tudor court,_ she mused ruefully.

"Leave me, Lord Northumberland." Her voice was weak, like that under water.

Bowing to her, the earl advised, "Take care of yourself." He then exited.

As the door closed, a pall of depression – thick, almost impervious – settled over Jane. Tears pooled into her eyes, and her body shuddered with the force of her sobs. Strong waves of mental agony were tearing her whole being apart, painting her consciousness in opaque hues. Why was the Lord punishing her so harshly? _No, it is not God – it is that Tudor tyrant's fault,_ Jane deduced.

* * *

 _Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe. After my fall down the staircase, I cannot return home for another couple of weeks, although I was permitted to leave Tuscany. I am lucky that I have a comfortable armchair and many pillows so that I can sit in front of my laptop._

 _I think many expected that Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, would have at least one private conversation with Queen Anne, the former Lady Bassett. Exeter loves her, and Anne fell in love with him too, although she cannot call her feelings for him 'love', as Anne mentions in her conversation with her mother because it is her first love. Do you detest Honor Grenville?_

 _I know that there is one reader who loves the Duchess of Suffolk for personal reasons. I hope that now you are not angry with me. King Henry is interested in Catherine Brandon, who is tired of her husband's infidelities and begins to consider a liaison with the king a possibility to take revenge on Charles. Brandon's womanizing nature is portrayed in accordance with the show's depiction. What will Catherine Brandon do? Will she consent to become a royal mistress?_

 _Elizabeth Holland helped the Duke of Norfolk catch Nicholas Carew and the messenger who was about to depart to Italy. The downfall of Thomas Cromwell was inevitable in this AU, but I pity him and respect Cromwell as a great and talented statesman and councilor. The Howards began to act after the Pope's main agent in England – Carew – had been identified. As Surrey says, the letters they give King Henry are not forgeries, and among them, there are a few letters indicating that Anne Boleyn is innocent. Do not be astonished that Henry does not want to believe in Anne's innocence, but many investigations are launched, and the monarch orders to have Suffolk apprehended for questioning. Lady Elizabeth Somerset, Countess of Worcester, does not appear in this story, but as she was a chief informant against Anne, we must deal with her. The plot to kill Princess Elizabeth collapsed before Carew could begin to act._

 _Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, is now a widower. It is the monarch's plan to join Anne's former sweetheart, who may still love Anne, and Jane Seymour in holy matrimony. Why does the king want this? For his own amusement and in punishment because Jane failed to give him a son. However, maybe Jane and Percy will eventually find peace, for Percy is not like the king._

 _Leviathan is a creature with the form of a sea serpent from Jewish belief, referenced in the Hebrew Bible in the Book of Job, the Book of Isaiah, and so on. Isn't King Henry a serpent?_

 _I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!_

 _I have another poll about Catherine Brandon's fate on my profile! Thank you in advance!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athénaïs Penelope Clemence_


	33. Chapter 32: A Pall of Depression

**Chapter 32: A Pall of Depression**

 _ **November 19, 1538, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France**_

Anne de Montmorency found Lady Mary Stafford in the gardens. Dressed in a black cloak embroidered with pearls, she stood near a fountain, where water was splashing like flying silver drops in the sunlight. The autumn was mild, and days were not chilly yet; birds sang and twittered around, and some parts of the park were orange, brown, and red – still lovely.

"Madame Stafford." Montmorency swept a bow to her.

"Good day, Monsieur de Montmorency. You are up so early!"

"Always. I'm a martial man, so my day begins at sunrise."

"Is my sister safe now?" She glanced at her companion strictly.

"Yes," replied Anne de Montmorency. "The queen is lodged in her new suite. The security measures were toughened significantly in the palace, especially in the queen's rooms. The king appointed Jean, Count de Dammartin, captain of his wife's personal guard. I myself selected men for this mission from His Majesty's most trusted guards, each exceptionally trained."

"Is Anne as safe as she was when your wife almost killed her?"

"Madeleine de Savoy is dead." A spasm of something that might have been pain or disgust crossed his countenance. "You remember that I oversaw her execution myself."

"I did not mean to hurt you." Mary should not have been so harsh with him. "I'm sorry."

An oppressing silence ensued, and remembrances resurfaced in their brains.

The day of Prince Charles' murder, and of Princess Aimée's birth. The death of Cardinal François de Tournon in the dungeons, although the official reason of his demise was high fever. The bloody executions of Madeleine de Montmorency, Count Louis de Vaudémont, and Adrienne de Cosse – one of Anne's handmaidens, who had let Madeleine and the other villains enter the queen's chambers on that dreadful day. The endless search of Duke Claude de Guise and Cardinal Jean de Lorraine conducted by Philippe de Chabot, Admiral of France, and his men.

Among their memories, the prince's funeral stood out most clearly. Charles' body had been delivered from Fontainebleau to Château de Louvre. Defying the convention, King François and his sister had resolved to attend the funeral and arrived in Paris. During the preparations for the burial, a life-size effigy of Charles, dressed in flamboyant colorful clothes, had been placed on a platform in the great hall at Louvre, and mourners had shed tears for the dead man near it. François and Marguerite had appeared near the effigy of the king's son every morning after matins.

National mourning had been announced up to the day of the funeral. Watched by crowds of tearful Parisians, the prince's coffin had been carried to Basilica of Saint-Denis on a horse drawn by four stallions, all draped in black velvet to the ground. The coffin was covered in a sumptuous purple cloth, ornamented with gold thread and the Valois coat-of-arms, topped with the effigy of Prince Charles, and above it, a canopy had been supported by six knights.

In Paris, church bells had tolled a funereal dirge for many days. Acting as the chief mourner, the monarch had led the party of solemn people, all dressed in black. Just as his father had done the unthinkable for his favorite son, Dauphin Henri had participated, his hand always linked to his that of his sister, Princess Marguerite. Young Margot was crying all the time, while Henri looked more somber than ever before. Everyone had seen tears on the faces of François and his relatives.

As the procession had stopped near the cathedral, Princess Marguerite's nerves had cracked like glass: she had run to the coffin and not allowed to take it anywhere. Henri had persuaded his disconsolate sister to step aside, and the coffin had been brought inside to the royal necropolis, where Charles had been erred next to his mother, Queen Claude of France. Queen Anne had not been present, keeping to her rooms at Fontainebleau until her churching according to tradition.

The whole of the Guise family were banished from the Valois court permanently. Even the _six_ sons of Claude de Lorraine, the _former_ Duke de Guise. The King of France had not attained his former friend's children, but they had to stay in their estates under constant surveillance.

Mary snapped out of her reveries. "Many say that Prince Charles' funeral were better than those of former French monarchs. King François adored his son absolutely."

Montmorency looked away into the garden. "I've shut their dirty mouths."

"They are Dauphin Henri's supporters… Catholics."

"His Highness does not share their opinion. Among the king's sons, the late Charles and Henri were not as close as Henri and the late François. But Henri loved his youngest brother."

She eyed a nearby flowerbed that had been full of roses in summer. "All is obvious: François and Henri have been in mourning for months, sequestered in their apartments."

In a voice dripping with guilt, he muttered, "I should not have admitted the tragedy."

Mary stepped to him and patted his rigid shoulder. "Montmorency, don't blame yourself for your spouse's crimes. You did not know that she conspired with the others to murder Anne."

Montmorency glanced at her with interminable sadness. "Something has changed inside me since I saw my wife trying to harm Queen Anne. Since I saw the dead Prince Charles… I'm not the same man who served His Majesty with dignity, and whose honor was never tainted before."

"No! Madeleine besmirched her honor, not yours. The king loves and trusts you."

He was surprisingly stoic as he said, "Yes, but it is all too difficult."

"Mama! Mama!" Mary's offspring chorused as they neared the fountain.

They swiveled to Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, who was leading Annie and Edward Stafford for a stroll. Laughing breezily, the children encircled their mother, who hugged them briefly.

Montmorency bowed to Elizabeth and Mary. "I bid you a good day, Madame Wiltshire and Madame Stafford." He hurried away, as if his feet were on fire.

Contemplating his retreating form, Mary held back tears. In the past months, Montmorency had been gloomy like a rainstorm cloud, and she wondered how he was coping with his wife's loss and his shame of her treason. Every thought of him instilled in her more and more compassion, and something that she could not have imagined before that would be there for him – warmth.

Elizabeth commented, "You and Montmorency would be a suitable match."

"Mother, please!" Mary shrugged her words off. "We are in mourning!"

Her mother directed her gaze in the direction where Montmorency had gone. "Not now, but maybe one day. He is _a widower_ , and although he has heirs, he might remarry."

Frowning at her mother, Mary embraced Annie and Edward again.

Annie asked, "Mama, why is Queen Anne so sad?"

Edward sighed. "She gives us sweet cakes, she is so kind. I want her to smile."

Mary eyed her children in turns. "Soon she will be happy again."

Annie verbalized what troubled her when she watched Queen Anne with her two daughters. "Princesses Louise and Aimée have a father. Will Edward and I have a new papa?"

Edward lifted his eyes to the sky. "Our father is in heaven."

Mary was caught off guard by this turn of events. "Your papa will always be in our hearts."

Elizabeth interposed, "Think of what your children told you."

Mary deciphered her mother's hint. "Don't mention it again!"

They began playing a hide-and-seek game. As Mary ran with her rambunctious offspring, her heart ached for William Stafford. Yet, her late husband roused in her a surge of memories so distant that their once amorous connections now seemed almost misty. At present, the French court was her home, and she sighed wistfully at the thought that the past was gone forever.

§§§

The plaintive tune hit the Queen of Navarre's ears as she entered the king's study inside his living quarters. She surveyed the surroundings: books left here and there on marble tables, the walls swathed in golden velvet, gilded furniture, and the monarch's favorite armchair in the corner, where lay an ancient-looking tome. Her brother must have read it at night.

In the past three months, only Marguerite and Montmorency were granted access to the royal apartments. Through frustrated, Queen Anne respected her husband's wishes.

Bleak morning light was filtering through the open shutters. The ruler sat at his desk, his hands folded under his chin. Margot's heart constricted at the sight of her deathly pale sibling, who was as lean as during his captivity in Madrid; his black attire stressed his unhealthiness.

A tall and thin man of forty-eight, Claudin de Sermisy had a long face with big brown eyes and thin lips, his features sharp and his skin naturally pallid. Garbed in a fine brown doublet with a red lace-trimmed band collar, Sermisy was now playing one of his Lamentations at his liege lord's behest. A famed and favored French composer, Sermisy wrote both sacred and secular music, including his Masses, for example, a Requiem mass, and many motets.

François rasped, "This Lamentation mirrors what is happening in my heart."

Sermisy asked, "Should I change the tune, Your Majesty?"

Marguerite neared them. "Claudin, don't play Lamentations when my brother summons you next time. You have written hundreds of chansons, so choose something among them."

The composer bowed in both deference and solidarity with her opinion. "Madame."

The king huffed, "Have you come to lecture me, sister?"

The Queen of Navarre dismissed, "Claudin, please leave us."

After sketching a bow, Sermisy grabbed the lute and vacated the room.

"Is it what I think?" Marguerite settled in a chair next to her brother.

King François clasped a sheet of paper. "The Duke of Norfolk's secret missive."

His eyes skimmed through it, rapidly absorbing the details. Then he read it aloud.

 _Your most Christian Majesty King François,_

 _The recent arrests in London have wreaked havoc in the Tudor court. King Henry is still staying at Elsyng Palace, together with the pregnant Queen Anne._

 _Sir Francis Bryan apprehended Thomas Cromwell, Baron Cromwell of Okeham, at his home in Austin Friars. We, the old nobility of England, are reveling in Cromwell's downfall. However, the arrest of Thomas Audley, Lord Chancellor, came like a lightning-bolt from a summer sky. The Earl of Surrey, my son, dragged the Lord Chancellor from the meeting of Privy Council, which he headed during the king's sojourn at Elsyng, and then Surrey delivered him to the Tower. My men also captured Sir Nicholas Carew mere hours before the arrests of the others._

 _The court is ripe for gossip and scandal. People say that Audley, Carew, and Cromwell are all suspected of having conspired against King Henry or Queen Anne, Your Majesty's wife. Many refer to Anne in slanderous expressions_ _, but I cannot change that. Indeed, several investigations were launched, including one into Anne's case. All eyes are now directed at Princess Elizabeth, whose fortunes will change for the better if my niece is acquitted of the false charges._

 _The Duke of Suffolk was arrested for questioning. My guards took that Brandon upstart to the Tower. No one anticipated that the king's boyhood friend, who has lived through thick and thin with his sovereign, might be subject to such degrading treatment._

 _Since Lady Mary Tudor's escape, there is no Spanish ambassador at court. The former apartments of Eustace Chapuys were ransacked, as well as the rooms of his servants._

 _I shall keep Your Majesty informed. God bless you and Queen Anne!_

 _Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk and your ally_

Marguerite laughed. "Our English allies have delivered on their promise. I hope that soon Anne's innocence will be proved, and Henry will announce it officially."

François tapped his fingers on the desk. "No one knows what is transpiring in Henry's head. _'The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing'_ , as Socrates wisely said."

"I have concerns." Marguerite leaned back in her chair. "About His Grace of Norfolk. It is dangerous to give too much power to a self-centered and power-hungry man such as him. Today, he is serving Anne, but tomorrow he might switch sides. He remains a Catholic, after all."

The ruler filled a goblet of wine from the decanter that stood on the desk. "Norfolk must have masterminded Audley's downfall, who was not implicated in the plot against Anne. He strives to become Lord Chancellor, and Henry is likely to appoint him on this position."

"The sense of power might go to his head. Wouldn't Norfolk become dangerous, then?"

He drained the contents and then refilled the goblet again. "I do not think so. Elizabeth is the duke's relative, and he will safeguard her: her safety means his future control over the English realm. Despite his religion, it is beneficial for him to make her queen regnant."

"What if he conspires with Anne's foes to have the Plantagenets reinstated?"

"Make haste cautiously," he answered. "We shall not act against him unless he gives us a compelling reason. He will support Elizabeth's bid for the throne, at least for now."

Marguerite watched her brother drink more wine with disapproval, but she continued their discourse. "What about Sir Nicholas Carew, the Pope's main partisan in England?"

François emptied the goblet. "My agents intercepted the Pope's missives to Carew, in which he instructed the man to murder Elizabeth – an innocent child. From the other letters my spies found, we learned that the Pope had ordered William Brereton to get rid of Anne, so the man testified against her before and during the trial." A blaze of indignation lit up his eyes as he spat, "Pope Paul should be renamed into _'His Viciousness'_ , for _'His Holiness'_ does not suit him."

"True." Marguerite smirked at his sarcastic tirade. "That hypocritical unholy brute did not even begrudge the emperor for invading France under false pretenses."

"The Pope is vile, but not holy."

"You will not persecute the French reformers, will you?"

"No. France is allied with the Protestant nations. I shall abide by our treaty."

His sister pushed a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. "Thank you, brother! I'll continue my _intellectual_ work with humanists, abbots, and the members of my theological circle."

The king's brows knitted together forbiddingly. "Be careful with the evangelicals in your entourage, Margot. In adopting the doctrines of Calvin and other Protestant theologians, they _divorced_ the reformers' positive doctrinal teachings due to their unfeasible demand to completely repudiate the Catholic Church. They offer not to transform the existing cult, but to destroy it."

Marguerite deciphered his warning. "You shall not allow that to happen."

"Never." He poured another goblet. "Neither you nor they ought to cross a line. In spite of my loathing for the current Pope, there will be no opportunistic reforms in France."

"My husband, Henri of Navarre, writes to me often. He has been worried about you, brother. There are condolences on your son's death in his every letter, and he wishes you all the best."

"Henri has always been my good friend. Go to Navarre to him, sister."

She shook her head. "I cannot leave you. Especially not now. How is your marital life?"

Lost in his spiraling dolor, François could not think of Anne. To his embarrassment, he had not met his consort even once since he had secluded himself in his chambers after his son's funeral. Staring into space, meeting with his sister, reading, shedding tears, drinking heavily, sometimes sleeping, and very rarely eating – all these things alternated like a tidal movement.

 _Forgive me for the lack of my attention, Anne,_ the king begged his wife. The monarch was sliding, slipping, falling away, as if his life were an inclined hill on which there was no resting, so his downward journey progressed. Down, down, down into the universe of unbearable travails and everlasting guilt, both feelings as ancient as prehistoric remains of human life.

He gulped more wine. "What about it?"

"We are all in mourning for Charles." She crossed herself. "Your son died for Anne so that his father could be happy with his stepmother. He would have wanted you to be with her now."

A spasm of hurt crossed his previously tranquil features. "Margot, I cannot think about my marriage or any pleasures. Now I want to be alone."

Tears pricked her eyes. "It is so horrible when children predecease their parents. When my son with Henri passed away eight years ago, I was so broken that I ran to a chapel and knelt at the altar, crying and repeating over and _again 'Oh Lord, why did you take my son? Why?'_ I did the same every time I had my _six miscarriages_ during my first marriage to Duke Charles d'Alençon and _three more miscarriages_ during my matrimony with Henri d'Albert. At present, the fear that my only surviving child, my dearest Jeanne, might die is with me day and night."

"Did God answer to you, sister?"

She sniffed. "No, but priests say that it is the Lord's will."

As their gazes locked, his stare was an incandescent brand, searing into her and burning away everything. Marguerite grasped its sense: his gaze signified that the undercurrent of helpless rage with the Creator was bubbling in his veins, like lava tinctured with desperation.

"I would have said the same before Charles' death. But now–" He trailed off.

"Brother, you have a family," she comforted.

François threw the goblet away in a fierce gesture; the wine spilled onto the floor.

The monarch's eyes fluttered shut. "I'm eager to close my eyes forever so that I do not see anything and anyone. Sometimes, I wish not to be part of this inequitable, cruel world." His eyes opened, and tears glistened in them. "I've lost _three children in less than three years_ : my dear François, Madeleine, and Charles. In addition, my daughter with my former mistress, Claude de Rohan-Gié, was stillborn. My daughters with Claude – Charlotte and Louise – died in childhood. In total, I've lost _six children_! Ah, I've forgotten about my three other deceased bastards with my former lovers, who died of various infections or simple fever long ago. I've kept asking God why He called them to heaven when they seemed to have a life, full of joy, ahead."

A pall of heartache encompassed the Queen of Navarre. "François, brother…"

He slammed his fist into his own chest repeatedly, beating it as though the Almighty deemed him deserving of this punishment. "And I blame myself! Myself!"

 _Myself,_ François reiterated in his mind. _Dear God, grant me atonement if it is possible!_ His memory reproduced the corpse of his beloved son Charles on the floor, with a dagger sticking out of the chest. The lingering echoes of tragedy swirled and settled around him, like desert sand over bare land. His entire being was in a state of miserable deformity, and he could feel the substance of scalding anguish, perpetual like the world's history, solid in the cavity of his breast.

"No!" she cried. "Their deaths are not your fault!"

"Margot, I've not rescued them! I've been a bad father to them!"

François felt horribly empty, like the shell of a man, a listlessness akin to soul sickness. He stretched out a hand towards his sister, as though imploring her to lend him her moral support and strength. Feeling both hot and cold, Marguerite jumped and rushed to him like a storm.

As she dropped to her knees beside the king, she grabbed his hand and kissed it fervently. "Brother, if I could only assuage your pain, I would! I cannot see you so broken!"

"See now, sister," he continued huskily, squeezing her hand. "I did not love Claude, but I was fond of her, and I've always loved all of our offspring. And what now? Most of them are not alive, save Marguerite and Henri. Claude must be glaring down at me from heaven with hate."

"Brother," whispered the Navarrese queen, stroking his hair. "You are wrong: your grief is speaking for you. Claude would never have despised and blamed you."

"See here, Margot!" Tears moistened his vacant eyes. "Here is the monarch who has failed to protect his children. I fear that I might not be a good father to those offspring whom the Holy Father has not taken away. In ancient times, some pagans referred to sorrows and trials as the vengeance of their gods upon them for their sins. Is that applicable to me?"

"François! No!" she sobbed, kissing his hand. "That is not true!"

A haze of ire enveloped the ruler. "I sent to the block many traitors implicated in Charles' murder, save the Lorraine brothers. I'll find them and tear their vile hearts from their chests. But all those executions did not ease my pain and… only strengthened my guilt."

Marguerite reached out and gently touched his face. His skin was heated and salty from the tears, and his hollow eyes looked through the reality and beyond. Tracing the line of tears on his cheeks, she was crying while stroking her brother's hair. As he trembled from a wave of sobs that assaulted him, she enveloped him into her arms, and he rested his head upon her chest.

"Time will heal your wounds," predicted Marguerite.

"No," rasped François into her hair. "It never will. But perhaps Anne can. Somewhat."

The queen smiled. "Anne and you will have _a large family_."

"My wife," the king said, disentangling himself from her sister. The moment of his weakness had passed, but the sorrow still resided within him. "Give her Norfolk's letter."

Marguerite held his frantic gaze as her brother went to a window. She climbed to her feet with a watery smile. "May I tell Anne to come to you?"

His eyes were red-rimmed. "Not yet. When I'm ready, I'll pay a visit to her."

She gazed at him beseechingly. "You have kept saying the same for months. When will it be over? Anne is your cure from all our woes – your wife and your daughters."

He flashed a smile, tiny like a sliver of moon. "My queen… I often dream of her…"

The ruler's sister neared her brother from the back. "François, we are all now worried about the future of the Valois dynasty. We have _only one surviving prince left_ – Henri."

"Henri whose marriage has been _childless_ , at least so far."

The queen embraced her brother from the back, pressing her head to him. "We cannot allow the great Valois dynasty, which emerged triumphant from the long, devastating Hundred Years' War and has many other accomplishments, to die out on the male side."

He swallowed nervously. "If our male line goes extinct, the House of Bourbon will rule."

"The throne of France must belong to the Valois family. The worst will not happen."

François swiveled to face her. "We must take into account all possibilities. We shall never be able to cancel the Salic law from the ancient Frankish civil law code, compiled centuries ago by Clovis, the first Frankish king. The Estates General will never consent to that."

Despair reared its head as their gazes locked, with a depth that was alarming.

Marguerite placed her hands upon her brother's shoulders. "Now we have two options. You must return to your spouse's bed: Anne has long healed from Aimée's birth and can perform her marital duties. It does not take your wife long to conceive, so we will have good news about her new pregnancy quite soon." She sighed. "Or we can try to have Henri's marriage to Catherine annulled so that my nephew can remarry someone else who is more fertile than the Medici girl."

"Henri's annulment might be difficult to obtain."

She almost begged, "Renew intimate relations with Anne. Urgently."

François dipped a nod. "I shall, and I pray that our next child will be a son."

"We need _a little male Valois_ , better two or more." Her voice was layered with desperation. "I spoke to Doctor Fernel about Anne's health. She is a very strong woman who, despite no longer being a girl, can bear you many children within the next ten-twelve years. After all, Elizabeth Woodville and Eleanor of Aquitaine had their last babes in their early forties. Anne is very eager to have your progeny not only because it is her queenly duty to give you a male heir."

"Why do you think so, Margot? I shall never pressure her and behave like Henry."

Marguerite was optimistic on the subject of her brother's happiness with Anne. "I know you shall not. One day, your wife will love you madly, brother! She is not indifferent to you."

He let out a smile. "Soon we will go to the castle where Ferdinand is held together."

"I'll tell her that." Her tears began drying up.

A crestfallen and furious François roared, "I want the Lorraine brothers dead!"

"The question is how to capture the villains. At least, King James of Scotland and Marie de Guise refused to give them refuge. James and Marie both immediately wrote to us."

"They must have fled to Spain, then. To Carlos."

"Try not to think about that, brother. And rest for some time."

Marguerite collected the missive from the Duke of Norfolk and quitted the room.

For a while, François watched the gray clouds flutter across the sky, unusually clear for this time of year. Very soon he would have to leave his quarters, appear before the court, and take the government in his capable hands. In public, he would have to bear his sufferings with invincible courage. As the King of France, François had duties to his family, nobility, and nation.

§§§

Dauphin Henri and Diane de Poitiers sat on a couch in silence for a long time. She was in foul spirits, for her lover's thoughtful look and his hollow gaze, which Diane had witnessed every day since his brother's death, started irritating her like a burr chafing under her feet.

The chamber, which was adjacent to his bedroom, was quiet like a tomb. The somber interior was elegant and rich: dark mahogany tables, piled with books, and gray-brocaded couches, which lined the walls tapestried with scenes from biblical stories. The prince's tastes were more austere than the typical French ones. The vaulted stained glass windows were the most fanciful thing.

Diane interrupted the depressing silence. "After the invasion, King François claimed that we must be frugal to refill the state coffers. Yet, Prince Charles' funeral was too lavish."

"I shall not speak about that." Her speech unsettled Henri a lot.

"His Majesty must save more money. What if there is another war against the emperor?"

His eyes blazed with rage. "How I wish I had fought against that Habsburg devil during the invasion! If there is a new conflict, I shall join the king's army!"

She moved closer to him on the couch and clasped his hand in hers. "Do not be angry and listen to me, Henri." She stilled for a moment, and as he nodded, she went on. "Your brother's death has changed everything. Now you are the monarch's _only living son_ – the nation's last hope. You must prepare for kingship when God deems it right to make you King of France."

He removed his hand from hers, clenching his teeth and glaring at her. "If the Lord wills it, one day I'll ascend the throne. My father is young enough, and I wish him a long reign."

"I admire King François. But I care about your future more than anything else. I'm older and wiser than you, Henri, and I know how swift-flowing and unpredictable life is."

" _Ma chérie_ , I'm ready for everything, except for one thing."

"What is it?" She lowered her eyes demurely, studying her fingernails, as if the secrets of the universe were scribed there. "Is it the necessity to deal with Queen Anne?"

"What?" Abashed, he leaned back in the couch.

Her face had a taut look he did not remember seeing before. "You will not like my words, but I must speak. Queen Anne does pose a threat to France because of her heresy. The worst is that any potential son she might have with the king will be your rival."

Irritation tinted his mood. "Diane, I'm aware of your dislike for Her Majesty because of her religion. Yet, I shall not allow you to disrespect her in my presence. Even if I succeed my father, I shall not deal with her, as you phrased it. She is the mother of my two sisters!"

Diane's smirk was venomous. "I pray that the woman continues to have only girls."

The dauphin tempered his sudden desire to slap his mistress. "You hate to be overshadowed, Diane. Once you were the center of our court's life, of course together with that Pisseleu strumpet. With the appearance of Anne Boleyn, she replaced the two of you as the court's shining star." Leaning to her, he chuckled and inquired, "Are you envious of Queen Anne, Diane?"

Her temper flared. "Don't humiliate me by comparing us!"

"Why not? You are both prime examples of beautiful and educated women."

"Let's not discuss her, Henri." Now she just wanted to close the topic.

The dauphin stood up and commenced pacing back and forth. His train of thought drifted to the late Charles de Valois. His skin felt clammy at the remembrance of all the times when he had rejected his sibling's company in favor of his paramour's. An eddy of guilt swirled through him, his heart fragmented into countless pieces that even his breathing was agonizing. _I would have done many things differently if Charles had survived,_ Henri bemoaned. _If only I could…_

His steps were beating out a plangent rhythm of his loss. "I wish I had been a better brother to Charles. We loved each other, but we had a strained relationship. My brother strove to eliminate the distance between us, but I pushed him away. I envied that the king adored him more than me, but I was wrong: our father loved us both. I even considered Charles my rival!"

She tried to reason with him. "Henri, you are only torturing yourself."

Henri ignored her. "I'd like to talk about my poor brother. Now when I cannot tell him how much I adore him, I feel as if half of my life had gone. I'm praying for him every day."

"Charles was impulsive and temperamental, so you often quarreled."

"My brother would have listened to me." Pausing near a cabinet, Henri wrung his hands in anguish. "If I had not been so stubborn, we would have been closer. Now my jealousy appears petty and foolish! My behavior towards Charles was that of a stubborn and petulant child. God, the dreadful unreasonableness of this! The appalling and unbearable waste of time when we could have been loving and caring brothers. Charles was a wonderful person!"

His voice wavered, and Henri went dreadfully still. His face, turned to a window, was utterly melancholic, but it possessed a rueful beauty. A sense of stinging shame overmastered him.

Diane observed him with her hands folded in her lap. With the weight of her almost forty years heavy on her slim shoulders, she reflected that the tragedy with Charles was the right thing, and a crafty prince ought to exult in it, but not Henri, who did not view his now uncontested right for the throne in a positive light. Her blank features were immobile, but a vibrating tension in the pit of her stomach indicated her fear of what would happen if Henri ever learned _the truth_.

Her arctic voice cut through the stillness. "Those who drown in shame in the moments of weakness create cheap drama. The dauphin's duty to his nation is something more and other than moral perfection. The road to the most desired land of power runs past the land of honor."

Henri was suddenly cognizant of a bubbling fury in his veins. "Have you always been such an unfeeling bitch? Or are you just a bit under the weather today?"

"Henri!" A shocked Diane bounced to her feet.

He glowered at her. "I should not have unburdened my soul to you."

She took a step to him. " _Mon amour_ , please–"

He barked, "Leave, Diane. When I need you again, I'll invite you."

"As you wish." She was frightened that she might anger him more.

Masking her annoyance, Diane bobbed a curtsey and stomped over to the door.

"Henri!" Catherine de' Medici called as she walked in.

The dauphin resented the intrusion of strangers when he needed solitude. The intrusion of his unwanted wife was worse for him. He bit back the profanities swarming through his head.

"Be gone, Catherine!" he roared.

Catherine recoiled from him. "Forgive me," she mumbled lamely.

Battered by his disdainful glare, Catherine and Diane both exited. He had not noticed their non-verbal exchange that resembled the look of two generals coordinating a temporary retreat.

* * *

 ** _December 15, 1538, Château de Lagardère, village of_ **_**Lagardère, Gascony, France**_

The Duchess d'Étampes strode through the hallway. The portraits of Valois kings on the walls reminded Anne of her former position as the French king's chief mistress, as if mocking her.

"Damn the Lorraines!" Anne de Pisseleu reached their apartments and halted.

Irritation and terror vied for control of her senses. She had not seen her loathsome guests for days, wondering why they had spent the entire time in their quarters. Part of her hoped that the two scoundrels, who were blackmailing Anne, had escaped without warning her.

Inside, Anne saw the two men lounging in matching walnut armchairs with a shaped crest rail, draped with red brocade. They played a game of chess, their expressions merry.

"Are you eager for a stroll?" the duchess questioned, closing the door.

Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, moved his king. Absently, without looking at her, he answered, "It would be a huge relief to get out again, but it would be too risky."

"No news from Spain?" Anne crossed to a chair and seated herself there.

"Just silence," Claude ground out through his clenched teeth.

Cardinal Jean de Lorraine emitted an audible sigh. "I'm afraid the emperor will not grant us asylum. His hands are tied with his wife being kept almost prisoner in France."

She countered, "I was told that the empress is a guest of honor at Fontainebleau."

"Guest or prisoner!" Jean moved his queen across the chessboard to a group of his brother's rooks. "I see no difference. Empress Isabella is kept isolated from her Spanish and Portuguese ladies-in-waiting who accompanied her to France. King François will not release her."

Claude's knight went two squares ahead. "François is up to something."

Anne snarled, "I've been tremendously patient with you both. I could have kicked you out days ago, but I did not. As I often say, what cannot be cured must be endured."

Jean barked a laugh. "That is a good philosophy, Madame."

Claude studied the chessboard. "Brother, your skills are powerful when it comes to working together against my pieces. Yet, my king will take yours."

"Then do that, Claude!" Jean threw his hands up in surrender. "Just leave me my bishop. Or I shall never forgive myself for losing my religious piece, for I am a churchman."

"Done." Claude smirked as Jean's defense was destroyed by the defeat of his roots.

"Don't switch to another subject," Anne chastised.

At last, the Duke de Guise tore his gaze from the chessboard. His glare impaled her.

"Suddenly feeling too strong?" Sarcasm leaked out of Claude's mouth. "Don't threaten us, Madame. If you stop helping us, our liege lord will learn that you once were a sunbeam in my and my brother's beds. He will also be informed that his brother-in-law, King Henri of Navarre, enjoyed your amazing body every time Henri visited the French court."

Jean flushed at the memory of his intimate encounters with the king's former mistress. "Oh, God, it is a sin to wish so much to taste the venom of Eve who corrupted Adam. But you, Madame, were such a delightful bedmate that I cannot help but want you carnally again."

An incensed Anne bounced to her feet before bellowing, "You shall not insult me! You are two jackals who tried to assassinate the royal family. You must be prostrate in gratitude that I've sheltered you here, but you must leave tomorrow at dawn at the latest."

The Cardinal de Lorraine panicked. "Where will we go?"

Guise counted his pawns on the chessboard. "What about your child, _ma chérie_? What will His Majesty and your husband say about your bastard? Who fathered the girl? She is certainly a little Valois. Is it King François' baby? Should we inform him?"

The duchess screamed, "It is none of your business!"

At this moment, Anne seemed almost translucent, the white colors of her skin signifying her mortal fright. In silence, she paced the room until she stopped near a window, raised her fist, and placed it against the cool glass. She yearned to scream and pound at the glass to release all her ire and heartbreak, a long time lying together inside of her and deforming her vitals.

She had thought that it had been a clever tactic to sleep with Prince Charles, having hoped that it would make her closer to power again. Yet, perhaps Charles had not remembered how she had made him a man in his insobriety. Later, Anne had realized that it would lead her nowhere, especially after she had been informed that the king had sent away all of his discarded paramours.

Torn between outrage and pain, the Duchess d'Étampes had felt betrayed by King François, who devoted himself entirely to his queen, having forgotten about his former _maîtresse-en-titre_. Together with Péronne de Pisseleu, she had rushed to her small estate in the village of Lagardère in Gascony. In the midst of suffering, Anne had discovered her pregnancy. Until three midwifes had confirmed that she was indeed with child, the duchess had not believed that it was true.

A nymph of insatiable passions, Anne de Pisseleu had indulged her appetites to an extreme degree, with King François and many other lovers without a lick of shame or regret. Among them, there were the Lorraine brothers, King Henri of Navarre, and a few other nobles. Anne had spent years trying to give François a baby that would have tied them together, but she had failed. Nevertheless, it had taken the ruler's youngest son _only one night_ to impregnate Anne!

Anne's initial intention had been to return to court after the child's birth. Her baby was the monarch's grandchild – a blood connection with the Valois family that she had craved for long. Not François' baby, but Charles'. She had hoped that Charles would acknowledge his daughter, or that François would let her return to court for his granddaughter's sake, and then she would lure the king back into her bed. However, her plans had been derailed by the prince's murder.

The duchess had birthed a baby girl less than two weeks ago. Although the baby had come one month early, the infant was strong and healthy. Anne had no time for convalescence because of the sudden arrival of the Lorraine brothers at Château de Lagardère. Duke Claude de Guise and Cardinal de Lorraine had been on the run for months, having hidden themselves in various towns. Now they needed a place to spend some time before deciding how to save their lives.

Although only Anne's sisters, Péronne and Louise, as well as her trusted maids knew of her daughter's existence, the child had also been seen by the Lorraine brothers. As the girl had Valois traits, Claude and Jean were certain that François was the baby's father, threatening Anne to inform the monarch about her birth and Anne's affairs with them both if she had not helped them.

Anne had named her daughter Charlotte not in honor of the girl's father, whom she had never loved, but to highlight the fact of the girl's paternity. Nonetheless, the prince's death had dashed the last vestiges of her hope for the triumph into pieces. Unsure of what to do next, Anne lived at Lagardère, while her daughter was her only consolation. The Lorraines were not in a hurry to depart, which instilled fear into Anne, a fear that never left her even in the dead of night.

She knew what crime the two men had committed. Everyone still spoke about the executions of Madeleine de Montmorency and other traitors in the summer, and Cardinal de Tournon's death was also mentioned. _Should I inform His Majesty about Charlotte? The Lorraine devils can no longer stay here. They murdered the father of my daughter, and I must get rid of them._

The duchess turned to her guests. "The Duke d'Étampes is coming. He will apprehend or kill you if you don't flee now." She lied, but it was the only way to push them to escape.

Claude threw the chessboard to the floor. "Why did you write to him?"

She smirked. "He is my spouse! I should not ask you whether to contact him or not."

Jean rose to his feet. "You are a whorish little bitch!"

Anne returned to her chair. "I may write to François myself. I might confess to betraying him with other men during my tenure as his _maîtresse-en-titre_. I might also report to him that the two men who are guilty of his son's assassination and who attempted to kill his wife are here."

"You will not throw yourself into the fire of the king's wrath!" Terror squeezed Claude.

She laughed – a harsh sound, mixed with determination. "I will; for my daughter. For her future. I want her to have a mother whom she will be proud of."

 _For my dear Charlotte,_ the duchess repeated silently. _There is no love stronger than the love of a mother. But there is no pain stronger than the loss of a child._ Her greatest terror was that if François learned about her concealing of the Lorraine brothers from his many soldiers who were searching them, her daughter would be taken away from her. At least, if Claude and Jean had fled to Spain, as they hoped, the French monarch might never discover her involvement.

"You are our accomplice," Claude pressured her. "If we are captured, you will be accused of being complicit in the plot against the Boleyn harlot. His Majesty will not condone it."

She fired back, "I would never have harmed any of the Valois family members. If I had learned about your plan in advance, I would have revealed everything to our sovereign."

Jean objected, "You hate Queen Anne. The king would not believe you."

Anne stood up and stomped to Claude. She leaned close, her lips snapping into disdain. "No one will believe that I joined a group of Catholic fanatics to dispose of the queen. My sympathies to the Protestants are widely known, and François is aware that I'm a secret Protestant." Moving back away, her wily expression indicated her superiority. "What would you say to that?"

Silence fell for several moments. The men's hateful looks would kill her if they could.

"We will leave tonight." The Duke de Guise jumped to his feet. "Prepare a pair of sturdy horses and provisions for us. Fortunately, we are not far from the border with Spain."

Jean's brows shot up. "But we have not heard from the emperor yet!"

"Run away," Anne advised, with heightened urgency. "As quickly as you can!"

Claude's laugh was bitter. "We have no choice."

"Everything will be ready soon. Pack your things." She went to the door.

Guise hissed, "I'll take revenge, Madame d'Étampes. And for my own losses, I shall regain everything that was mine." His vow echoed in the air as she paused near the door.

"May God punish you, you devil's servant." Anne slammed the door with a bang.

§§§

A receding rattle of hooves proclaimed the departure of the Lorraine brothers.

Anne breathed in the frosty air in the park silvered by the falling snow. At least, they had left, and now her future was not in inevitable jeopardy, provided that the monarch would not learn what she had done for his enemies. Yet, she was alarmed, feeling that trouble was brewing.

As her gaze eyed her surroundings, she huffed in annoyance. She disliked this old fortress, which, she believed, needed to be rebuilt in a more modern style. Built by Guillaume de Nérac in the second half of the 13th century, it had been owned by the abbots and then bishops of Condom until the king had bestowed it upon his former mistress. _At least, this castle is not crumbling under my feet. It is small, but clean and is well furnished, so I can hide here,_ Anne ranted silently.

"God, punish them for Charles' murder," Anne de Pisseleu whispered.

She wrapped her warm cloak tighter around herself. The smell of winter was hanging above the bare crowns of trees. Winter mixed with a sound she knew all too well – her daughter's soft crying. Anne rushed hotfoot to the castle, for she needed to take care of her baby.

In the nursery, Anne saw her sister trying to calm the crying infant.

"Give her to me," Anne instructed, and Péronne passed on the bundle to her. "Have the wet nurse feed her in the afternoon? Or could she catch cold because you opened a window?"

Péronne smiled at her. "Don't worry. Infants often cry; the girl is healthy."

"I shall not forgive you if something happens to her, sister."

Péronne did not take offense at the comment. "I've never thought that you can love someone so deeply. You have always been so selfish, pardon me for my straightforwardness."

"Charlotte is my miracle!" As Anne rocked the baby while cooing to her, the child stopped crying. "I love my daughter unconditionally and so fiercely that I can do anything for her. I still cannot believe that she exists! I was certain of my barrenness, but now she is with me."

"It is a God's gift for you, Anne. After many attempts to give His Majesty a child, you gave it to his son." Péronne crossed herself before adding, "Let Prince Charles' soul rest in peace."

The duchess smiled at her daughter, receiving a tiny smile in response. "I do not care who her father is." She kissed the baby's forehead. "She is mine! Only mine!"

Little Charlotte had the long Valois nose and the saturnine complexion, as well as a tuft of brown hair upon her head. Only the girl's emerald eyes attested to the Pisseleu heritage. In fact, one could say that Charlotte looked like the King of France's daughter, for François and Charles shared many facial traits. Anne took delight in her daughter's similarity to the ruler.

Péronne observed, "Charlotte looks more like a Valois than a Pisseleu. If the king did not set you aside, you could tell him that he fathered her, but you cannot lie to him because he has not shared a bed with you for too long. At least, you have your own child!"

Anne flinched, for her heart wounds were still fresh. "She is part of our sovereign. Charlotte is his granddaughter, and one day, he will see her. If only François had adored me again…"

"Dreams," her sister spelled out. "He is in love with his queen."

The duchess directed a glower at Péronne. "Don't remind me of that." She leered. "With only Dauphin Henri alive, the House of Valois needs more legitimate male children to secure the succession. But the Boleyn slattern seems to be unable to do her wifely duty."

"Her Majesty birthed the king's two healthy daughters. Next time, she may have a son."

"It is far worse for a woman to be cursed to bear only girls than to be barren. Especially for a queen! Catherine de' Medici is likely to be infertile, and Dauphin Henri might never have legitimate offspring, unless François has his union with that Italian merchant annulled."

"Don't be so venomous! The Lord might punish you for such thoughts."

"I don't think He will," Anne flung back in a voice layered with irony. "The Almighty has not held me accountable for my lascivious adventures. On the contrary, He rewarded me by answering to my prayers and letting me have my daughter." She kissed the infant's cheek.

A shocked Péronne criticized, "Don't say that for the love of heaven!"

At this moment, little Charlotte wailed. Anne rocked the baby with a stronger motion, but the sounds coming out of her did not cease. Anne then sang a song about birds and angels.

The duchess berated, "Sister, don't speak so loudly!"

"It is not my fault. Children feel their mother's bad mood and react."

"What is wrong, my dear?" Anne crooned.

The baby was enveloped in a cotton sheet and a woolen blanket to keep her warm. Sliding a hand between the folds of the material, Anne felt that the infant needed cleaning.

"Louise!" Anne called her second sister.

In a few moments, a teenaged woman ran inside the nursery. A girl of only fifteen, she was still unmarried and lived with her notorious older sister. Her plain gown of blue and ochre satin stressed her plumpness, but her face was pretty enough to attract a man. Anne intended to use her old noble connections so as to find a suitable husband for Louise in a couple of years.

"Yes, Anne!" Louise stopped near them, breathless. "Let me take my niece."

"Have her swaddled in a fresh blanket." Anne handed the fussing infant to Louise.

"Yes, sister." Louise exited together with the child.

Péronne broached a subject that, she knew, would upset her sister. "My husband demands that I move back to his estates and give him an heir. I'll not be able to be with you anymore."

Anne released a sigh. "I've always known that this day will come. I shall not keep you here with me, or he might file a complaint to a local magistrate or even to the king."

Péronne de Pisseleu was spouse of Michel de Barbancon, Seigneur de Cany, but she styled herself as Madame de Pisseleu. He was an important man in Picardy. While Péronne served her sister, her spouse was at court or resided in Château de Varennes near the town of Noyon.

The duchess clasped the other woman's hand in hers. "Maybe you will find happiness with Monsieur Michel. He appears to be a decent man, and he quite likes you."

"What about your husband, Jean de Brosse? He is not a bad man either, although he wed you only to become a duke when His Majesty arranged this marriage for you. He despised you for your scandalous relationship with our sovereign, but you are no longer a royal mistress. Perhaps he can find it in his heart to accept you as his wife and your daughter as his."

Anne glanced at her as if she were a lunatic. "Jean de Brosse? Don't be silly! Oh, he is not an honorable man who can adopt his wife's bastard. He loathes me wholeheartedly!"

"What are you going to do, Anne?"

"Henri of Navarre," drawled the Duchess d'Étampes with a wistful grin. "I cannot be the King of France's mistress, but Henri desires me fervently. We had a long-term clandestine affair, and he is one of the most noble-minded men I've ever been with. When we were in Tourane in my estates, he sent a page to me with a letter, in which Henri offered to meet."

Péronne recalled, "You did not respond because you were with child."

Anne walked to a window. "I'll dispatch a messenger to Henri soon."

"Where will it lead you, sister?" Péronne sighed helplessly.

"Henri d'Albert is a handsome, healthy, and passionate man. He told me that he had asked Queen Marguerite many times to return with him to Navarre, but she prefers to stay in France because François needs her to rule together. While I admire her sense of duty, I deeply sympathize with the Navarrese ruler abandoned by his wife. Their marriage has long been falling apart."

"You want to use this circumstance," her sister concluded.

The duchess looked outside. The rain-soaked clouds growled menacingly down upon the earth. "The truth is that I feel something for Henri. Lately, he has constantly been on my mind."

As the first raindrops began falling, Anne de Pisseleu recalled her first time with the King of Navarre. The next night after Eleanor of Austria's coronation. The deluge of rain had crushed down the city of Paris when Henri d'Albert and Anne had coupled in her bed. Their lovemaking had been extremely gratifying for them both, eccentric and tinged with colors of primeval passion. Anne's heart thumped a melody of longing for King Henri, whom she yearned to see again.

* * *

 _Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe. I still have the pain in my back, but I feel much better, and I was permitted to return home to Switzerland. Of course, I shall wear a facemask and gloves as we drive home. I shall be put on quarantine again once I return home._

 _This chapter is about the consequences of Prince Charles' murder in France. The Valois family and the whole of France are in mourning. It is not custom for kings to attend funerals, but François, Marguerite, and Henri defied the convention out of their love for the heroic late Charles._

 _Having lost many children, François heartbroken, so he leaves state affairs to Marguerite and his councilors, shutting himself in his apartments for months. His son, Henri, does the same. François and Marguerite are very worried about the succession crisis in France, for at present the Valois family has only one living prince and three princesses. Knowing that, Anne will be desperate to give François a son. François himself realizes that he needs a male child, but he will not behave like Henry._

 _In the next chapter, we will have the matter with Empress Isabella and King Ferdinand finally resolved, and you will be surprised._

 _We learn what happened to the Lorraine brothers, who ran away from Fontainebleau. They had hidden themselves in various places until their arrival at Château de Lagardère, owned by Anne de Pisseleu, Duchess d'Étampes. Now you understand why I needed Prince Charles to have a short-term affair with Anne: the duchess birthed the late prince's daughter after years of what she considered barrenness. That's why I said that we would need the name Charlotte! Anne forces Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, and Cardinal Jean de Lorraine to leave her castle, and they escape to Spain. She was blackmailed into giving them refuge. Will François learn about his granddaughter? And will Anne become a mistress of King Henry II of Navarre?_

 _Located in southern Aquitaine, Château de Lagardère is now in ruins. The historical information given about this former castle is correct._

 _The Estates General, also called States General (French: États-Généraux) was sort of Parliament in monarchial France. It was the assembly of the three classes of the realm: the clergy, the high-ranked nobility, as well as some privileged commoners and representatives of some privileged towns. Over time, the French monarchs decreased the power of the Estates General and rarely convened them, but there were matters such as regency and ancient laws that could not be decided without them._

 _The English drama continues in chapters 34 and 35. Soon the Italian Habsburg-Valois wars will continue._

 _VioletRoseLily and I began co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance", but we are posting it only at AO3 as it is more convenient for us. The pairings are François I of France/Elizabeth Tudor and Anne Boleyn/Edmund Tudor. We assume that two of the children of King Henry VII of England and Elizabeth of York survived. Henry VIII will also be there, but he has a unique character arc. We will update not as often as I update CWL, but the story is going to be interesting and will have a novel length._

 _For those who have not voted: the poll about Catherine Brandon's fate on my profile._

 _I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athénaïs Penelope Clemence_


	34. Chapter 33: A Golden Cage

**Chapter 33: A Golden Cage**

 ** _December 21, 1538, Château d'Azay-le-Rideau, Loire Valley, France_**

The weather was rather frosty, the wind biting, and Empress Isabella was freezing as a boat sailed to her destination in the Indre River. Snowflakes drifted lazily around her and settled on her ermine cloak before melting into the water. Though exhausted, she was relieved that her arduous voyage from Fontainebleau to the heart of Touraine in the Loire Valley was over.

An old grizzled man, his dark eyes like those of a hawk, watched her with interest. He had met her near the quay with armed men. "We will disembark in a few minutes."

The boat moored at the end of the small pier, and the fortress loomed before her. The turreted façade of the château was reflected in the river's waters, making time itself appear to stand still. Isabella had heard about this castle that had been rebuilt on an island in the middle of the river during the reign of King François. She admired the elegant fusion of French architecture and innovative Italian décor. _It would be too difficult to escape from this place. That is why Ferdinand has been kept here. Carlos' spies would not have found my cousin,_ Isabella mused.

The man offered, "Let me aid Your Imperial Majesty."

Taking his hand, Isabella climbed from the boat and onto the snow-covered ground. Five soldiers from the squad, which had escorted her from Paris, stood nearby. It irked her that she had traveled under such heavy guard like a criminal, but she could not alter anything.

"Be careful," the same man advised. "The ground is slippery."

His command of the French language was fantastic, so she deemed him French and spoke in what seemed to be his native tongue. "Thank you, Monsieur. Do you know who I am?"

"You are wife of the once mighty and bellicose emperor, who was defeated by his Valois rival and those whom you call heretics." His manners were gauche.

She eyed him quizzically. "Who are you?"

His lips lengthened into a smirk. "Just a boring old gentleman." He gestured towards the entrance. "That way, Madame. Their Majesties have been waiting for you."

Bafflement painted her features. "King François and Queen Anne?"

"Yes. They came at the castle last week. We expected your arrival today."

Isabella's brain processed the information. At Fontainebleau, she had been kept isolated; her Spanish servants and maids had been replaced with French ones. For many weeks, no one had interrupted her solitude, and then Isabella had been told that François would not visit her due to his self-seclusion in his rooms after Prince Charles' funeral as he had mourned for his son. At last, Marguerite de Navarre had brought the news that Isabella would travel to Ferdinand soon.

The empress verbalized her conclusion. "The King of France's mourning ended, and he journeyed here together with his consort. I wonder why I traveled separately from them."

"I do not presume to know Their Majesties' innermost thoughts."

"I wish to see my cousin, Ferdinand."

The man measured her with a glare of disapproval. "Your Imperial Majesty's impatience is understandable. However, would it not be more proper to greet your French host at first?"

With an air of imperial indignation about her, Isabella half-enjoined, half-snapped, "In France, I am a prisoner in a golden cage, and I can see no Spanish soul. The disrespect I'll show to your monarch now is insignificant compared to the one he has given me so far."

He growled hatefully, "It would have been better if all the Spaniards had drowned at the bottom of the sea. Then there would have been no military conflicts in Europe."

Her cheeks flushed with wrath. "It is none of your business, Monsieur."

Isabella's eyes widened as it dawned upon her who this man was. During Anne Boleyn's tenure as English queen, the woman had been heard saying the same about the Spanish after the Imperial conquest of Tunisia, and Eustace Chapuys had reported this to the emperor.

"Sir Thomas Boleyn," the empress identified him.

He bowed mockingly to her. "At your disposal, Your Imperial Majesty."

Boleyn's rudeness blew away the courtesy Isabella always displayed even to foes. "The water must be cold," she quipped as she looked back at the boat. "Maybe not the Spaniards, but you, Lord Wiltshire, will drown or freeze to death in the river. Once you were King Henry's lapdog, but then you transformed into King François' mongrel after you had been severely beaten in England. Will you jump into the water if your new master orders that?"

Her head high, Empress Isabella strode off. Her guards followed her into the castle.

"Damn her Portuguese soul," an insulted Boleyn spat. Seething with fury, yet outwardly calm, he barked commands to soldiers from the local garrison and entered the château.

§§§

"Where are King Ferdinand's rooms?" Isabella asked the castle's commandant.

"That way, Your Imperial Majesty," the old man answered.

She hastened down the hallway. At its end, she halted near the massive oak door, guarded by five sentinels, who dropped into bows in front of her and opened it to let her inside.

Upon entering, the empress could see the large bedroom, as well as the gallery with book-stacks. The living quarters were richly furnished and spacious, although the multicolored interior and the gilded ornaments did not suit Ferdinand's austere tastes. Her cousin lounged in a gilded armchair, basking in the heat from a fire in the hearth. Ferdinand was reading something, and his face, half-turned to the door, wore an introspective expression. He looked healthy, and he had even gained some weight due to the lack of exercise and rich food served for him.

"Ferdinand!" Isabella called, closing the door.

The notable prisoner glanced at her. "Cousin!" He enjoyed speaking Spanish at last.

As Ferdinand stood up, Isabella ran to him, and they embraced each other affectionately. As they parted after a round of hugs, they laughed blithesomely, exultant and relieved.

She commenced, "I must admit I'm a trifle embarrassed by the unconventional aspects of our audience. But I'm just so delighted to see you that I could not contain my joy."

He responded in kind, "No! I ought to be ashamed of meeting the Holy Roman Empress not in a Spanish or Flemish palace, but in a French castle owned by our adversary."

Something shadowed her visage. "I'm not sure who is an enemy or a friend."

"Tell me everything! The last thing I expected was to see you here, cousin. Why did King François let you visit me? Did my brother, Carlos, send you to France?"

As they seated themselves beside each other, Isabella narrated the entire story. Ferdinand leaned back in his seat, his countenance changing from anxiety to outright anger.

"What?" bellowed Ferdinand. "You are François' prisoner?!"

"Not exactly," corrected Isabella. "At Fontainebleau, the king informed me about Prince Charles' death and the attempt on his consort's life. François was so heartbroken that he left all the state affairs to his sister and ministers, and cloistered himself in his quarters for months."

He deduced, "That's why he kept you isolated." His face evolved into shock. "Wait! Do you mean Prince Charles, Duke d'Orléans? But he is… was a teenager! What happened?"

The empress told him about the Queen of France's rescue by the prince. She ended with, "There is a Spanish trace in the plot against Anne Boleyn. Moreover, Duke Claude de Guise and Cardinal Jean de Lorraine are rumored to have fled to my husband. The rest of the traitors seem to have been executed, but François' councilors are alert to any sign of treachery."

Horror blanched his face to the color of snow. "Is Carlos implicated?"

"I refuse to believe that my husband is capable of such a villainy. Carlos hates Anne, but her marriage to the French king made her _a real queen_. It is blasphemous to kill royalty!"

"And she was pregnant! Was the child lost or injured?"

"No; she birthed a healthy daughter." In a few heartbeats, Isabella confided, "After three months of the confinement to my gilded cage at Fontainebleau, Marguerite of Navarre appeared and was very harsh with me, blaming _our_ Carlos for _their_ Charles' murder."

"Prince Charles did not deserve such a fate." His sentiments were sincere.

Isabella crossed herself. "Poor François! Imagine: his second son died in roughly three years after his eldest son's death. I know the horror and pain of burying a child. I understand his despair as a father and king, who lost two male heirs in a country where women cannot rule."

"Too many deaths." Ferdinand stared at his cousin, as if he had imparted a secret to her, which she had already known. "I should not have consented to attack France with Carlos. I ought to have stayed in Vienna with my wife, my Anna. If I had at least stayed out of this, many would have remained alive – thousands of French and Imperial warriors and perhaps even Prince Charles and Anna. Maybe my spouse's death was my punishment for the invasion."

Ferdinand and Isabella gave tribute to his consort – Anna of Bohemia and Hungary.

The empress fiddled with her gown's high lace collar. "The Spanish economy is in tatters. Since Carlos' return, we have endeavored to stabilize the situation, but the shortage of funds in the state treasury and the attacks of the Ottomans on our ports have prevented us from succeeding."

An upset Ferdinand quizzed, "What about Hungary?"

"Your Anna assumed your kingly role after your capture. Buda was attacked and nearly taken by the Turks. Not frightened, Anna gathered your generals on Privy Council and encouraged them to fight against the Muslims until the last drop of blood was shed. Buda was besieged for months, but they eventually repelled the Turks when the adversary started having troubles with food supplies. Anna signed the Treaty of Nagyvárad with John Zápolya, your rival claimant to the Hungarian throne, and now you are the ruler of western Hungary; according to this peace treaty, you were also recognized as heir to the throne, since Zápolya remains childless."

His rueful grin was colored with pride. "My Anna was a great and intrepid woman."

Isabella smiled as well. "Yes. She accomplished the unbelievable!"

"Carlos did not spare soldiers to assist my wife in countering the Turkish aggression." It was not a question, but an inference he had made from his analysis of the situation.

"He could not do that. Please, try to understand him, cousin."

"My brother!" Ferdinand wavered between hot wrath and logical reasoning. The former won, and he exploded, "Damn Carlos! To subjugate the House of Valois, he convinced me to join him and take most of my armies to France, leaving Hungary and Bohemia without defense. But when my spouse did our Christian duty to fight against the heathens, he did not extend his helping hand to her, and I do not care that he had no money to pay to his troops."

"I cannot disagree." Her sigh twisted into a quiet, breathy one of pain.

"Carlos has betrayed me!" He crept further into the depths of the armchair, now looking like a wren in a nest. "Multiple times! He left me to rot in this golden cage for two years."

"That is why I came to France," she finished.

With one motion of a hand, an incensed Ferdinand cleared the table, which stood between their armchairs, from books and goblets. Jerking to his feet, he started pacing angrily.

"Well, my brother is a nasty piece of work. What will happen to me?"

She approached him. "François and Anne have been at the castle for a week."

His surprised glance, directed at her, was full of hope. "Will he let me go?"

Isabella shrugged. "Some political deal is necessary to secure your release."

"A scheme against Carlos." He broke into a laughing fit. "Or a marriage deal. It would suit me. In captivity, I've gotten the distinct features of a monk, don't you think so?"

"Maybe." She thought of her son Felipe's possible union with Princess Louise.

"My release is a double-edged sword. With or without a matrimonial arrangement, the King of France will demand that I cede territories and pay contributions."

Their thoughts coincided. "Just as Carlos compelled François to renounce his claims to Italy and surrender Burgundy according to the Treaty of Madrid of 1526."

In an hour, Empress Isabella left. Stillness met her outside, fractured by the sound of the door lock turning. Her stormy, tired mind was beyond her capacity to absorb the latest events.

§§§

"Leave us." Queen Anne's voice boomed through the vaulted chamber.

After curtsying, Françoise de Foix and Jeanne d'Angoulême walked out. They had both accompanied her to the Loire Valley; Anne's mother and sister remained at Fontainebleau.

As the French queen swung around, her scrutiny focused upon the man whom she refused to call her father. Two identical dark pools scrutinized each other with arctic curiosity.

Her gaze raked over his form. Garbed in a plain black velvet doublet and matching hose, Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, no longer looked as a dashing and influential courtier. He had aged, and deeper wrinkles on his face appeared. That would earn him Anne's respect, for age was synonymous with wisdom. Yet, she reveled in his misery, , even if it was a sin to feel so.

Anne eased herself into a wooden armchair with decorative armrests, its seat upholstered in red leather. She did not offer him to seat so as to highlight the difference between their ranks.

"Now you are a mere soldier," she addressed him in sardonic accents. "Downfall, failure, and death cannot be far from a man who is so power-hungry and too unscrupulous that he eagerly repudiates the code of honor and easily sacrifices his family for his personal gains."

A smirk curled the edges of Boleyn's mouth. "Anne, you of all people know well that with the right mindset, you can turn a painful downfall into a setup for a great success story. You became the Queen of France after your head had been almost lopped off in England."

Her eyes narrowed. "For you, I'm Your Majesty Queen Anne!"

"That will not change the fact that I am your father."

 _I hate you so, Wiltshire!_ Anne hissed silently. _You are not my father!_ Remembrances of her imprisonment in the Tower of London tumbled through her head. White-hot fury overwhelmed her senses, making the images more distinct and agonizing. In her eyes, Thomas Boleyn was a corpse of her parent, and the worst villain who had betrayed her, Mary, and George.

"You stopped being my father when you deserted me and George to save your worthless neck. Mary, our mother, and I will never forgive a horrible sinner such as yourself."

He raised a brow, undeterred and a bit amused. "There is no sanctity, Your Majesty." He stressed her title, but in a half-jocund, half-mocking way. "For years, you were implicated in our intrigues as we schemed to place you on the Tudor throne, but you still believed that true love defeats everything. Where did your feelings for King Henry lead you? Almost to the scaffold and then into exile!" He raised his voice. "I aided you to lose the innocence of spirit. At present, you know that you should not repeat the mistakes you committed in England in your second marriage."

His cynicism intensified Anne's loathing for him. "You lost everything: your wife, your two daughters, your son, your power and privileges, save your title." She leered at him. "Fate has led you through all of Dante's circles of hell. Now you are at my feet and my mercy!"

"You are an ordinary queen consort. Your fate is in your husband's hands."

"I am François' wife, and nothing will change that."

"A queen who has _failed in her main duty_ – to give her husband a male heir."

He had used the most destructive weapon against her – her lack of son. Her snigger was an acrimonious sound riven with spite. "My word would be enough to have you beheaded right now, but that would be too simple. You will drink many cups of humiliation from my hands."

He was undaunted. "Your reputation will be more tainted if you order your own father's death. People will compare you to the tyrannical King Henry, saying that you two are peas from the same pod; they will deem that you are unfit to be wife of the chivalrous King François."

The queen was barely holding onto her temper. "And you believe that? Then you know nothing about the French people's opinion of me. I saved them from the Habsburg invaders!"

"Your husband ejected the Spaniards, not you," amended the Earl of Wiltshire. "You were his tool in establishing the Protestant alliance, but this coalition might not last forever. You are only _a Protestant queen on the Valois Catholic throne_. I've heard about the recent attempt on your life: you are beleaguered by foes, and you do not know how long you will survive."

"François dealt with the traitors, and he shall defend me."

"You will always have more enemies than friends in France. Only three things may protect you: your official conversion, the king's love, and his son, better two and more boys."

This time, Anne could not deny that he was right. "François loves me, and I'll give him a brood of sons. But you will not benefit from that, and none of my children will love you."

"Two daughters! They are useless when your husband has only one surviving male heir, whose wife seems to be infertile. François might annul his union with a Protestant queen."

Anne glared at him. "Don't you dare insult my girls!"

Yet, he barked, "A queen is valueless without sons, just as Catherine of Aragon was."

"Be careful, your lordship. I'm your queen – not your daughter!"

He stepped forward and slightly leaned over her, as if to grab her, but he did not. "Once I lost everything because of your errors: your throwing yourself at Henry and your inability to birth his son. If you fall from the king's good graces in France, I shall not tumble down with you."

As the earl stepped away, Queen Anne climbed to her feet, her countenance disdainful. "So, you have plans to grab power in France. I'll ensure that you will preen yourself in the most distant corners of this country, or I'll have you exiled back to England."

His expression turned beastly. "You are the greatest embarrassment to the Boleyns!"

Her hatred was so extreme that she pledged, "I was the reason for your ascendancy at the Tudor court. If necessary, I shall be the reason for your fall at the Valois court."

"Enough!" they heard the monarch's voice. "Wiltshire, stay away from my wife!"

Therewith, Boleyn created a distance between him and the queen. Turning to the door, they saw King François at the doorway, his face blank, but his eyes rampant.

Bowing, the earl switched to French. "I apologize if I displeased Your Majesty."

Anne sank into a curtsey, but François immediately raised her. He took her hand and entwined their fingers, which was an explicit demonstration of his affection for his spouse.

"Monsieur Wiltshire," the ruler addressed the man with animosity. "I stood there for a while and heard enough. Anne is your queen! She will rise further in France – so far above you that you will not be able to see even her feet, where you must growl, begging for clemency."

A scared Wiltshire bowed again. "Your Majesty, forgive me."

"Plead with your daughter," François insisted. "On your knees."

Shocked, Boleyn knelt and muttered, "My queen, I beg your pardon."

"Granted." Anne was surprised and pleased that her spouse had treated Wiltshire so.

Their fingers now entangled in a tighter knot, the monarch pronounced, "I've already decided your fate, Wiltshire. You will serve as my ambassador to the Republic of Venice. I need an alliance with Venice. I hope my clemency will instill compassion into your icy heart."

François and Anne then exited, leaving Boleyn to wallow in his humiliation.

The Earl of Wiltshire blamed his daughter for his new misfortunes. _If she had listened to my advice on how to keep her position in France instead of quarrelling, François would not have been so angry with me._ Nonetheless, his conscience was troubled: although he had told Anne that she had trigged their plight in their home country, Boleyn comprehended that his fault far exceeded Anne's. Yet, he remained unshakably firm in his denial, for it was easier for him to live this way.

§§§

Upon entering their bedchamber, Anne steered François towards a large bed, its canopy of white silk ornamented with gold thread, its hangings of richly embroidered green brocade.

"I want you." Two pools of dark enigma exuded primeval desire for him.

"Say it again." His fierce yearning for her pulsated through his whole being.

"I want you so much, François." Pressing herself to him, Anne felt the heat and hardness of his erection against the softness of her stomach. "Take me as your wife."

Caught in a whirlwind of primordial hunger, the spouses literally pounced on each other. Biting and kissing possessively, feeling rejuvenated, as though they had just been cured from lethal infirmities and were now celebrating their survival. Never breaking the sweet connection of lips, they crawled into the bed. As Anne straddled her spouse and pushed him back against the pillows, their intimate tussle unfolded, as if tapestries of hunters on the walls had ensorcelled them.

 _God, let me conceive a son,_ Anne prayed as François was kissing her throat and shoulder, his hands curved around her dressed form, her blood thrumming with excitement. _The House of Valois needs a prince. I beseech you, our Lord, give us a prince who will save France._ They had renewed their intimacies three weeks ago before their journey from Fontainebleau to the Loire Valley. Every night, Anne accepted her husband into her arms with a feverish passion.

"Too many clothes." Anne practically tore the laces from the upper part of his doublet.

The king held her face in his hands. "You are aggressive today, aren't you?"

His queen frowned at him. "It shall not be like your tumbles with your paramours."

He stroked the contours of her still clothed body with his long fingers, itching to be bolder, and then began undressing her. "Of course not. I've never loved anyone but you, wife."

A peculiar laugh pealed from her. "Can you prove that?"

As he adroitly unlaced her corset, his spouse remained only in her chemise, and he torn it apart impatiently. "My fidelity to you will be the evidence of my feelings."

She grabbed his collar and pulled him to her. "So savage, Your gallant Majesty!"

He shrugged off his doublet and tossed it aside. In a minute, their garments were heaped upon the floor, and they were both naked, as if they had just been born from mythological amorous foam, their skin glowing white in morning sunlight, leaking in through the windows.

"So nude, Your lovely Majesty," whispered the monarch against her lips.

Her arms snaked around his shoulders. "It is improper for the king and his queen to make love in the daytime." Initiating the kiss again, she dived into lustful excitement.

He lavished her throat and bosom with heady kisses. "Royals don't have to practice self-control when they long to beautify each other's bodies and souls with love."

"No acting responsibly today?" She dug her nails into his back, and he groaned. It left a pattern of half-moon marks that filled in with crimson. "I'm marking you as mine."

"I am already yours, Anne." He licked her already moist lips.

With a growl, François flipped his queen onto her back and snuggled himself tight into the valley between her thighs. His searing kisses drove her into a frenzied arousal, and she forced him to turn onto his side and then onto his back. As she impaled herself on him, he thrust his hips up frantically, maintaining her insane rhythm, their mouths and tongues probing and fighting for supremacy. Cries mingled as they soared and basked in the heat of their amatory sun.

"Give me your son," she implored breathlessly. "A small copy of his great father."

They were not joined now after a series of twists and turns during the intercourse.

He kissed her earlobe and blew into her ear. "I love you, Anne."

Her head dropped to his hips. "I'll know all of you, François. Every inch of you."

His fingers entangled into her long, raven locks. "You don't have to do this."

"I want this." Anne had never done this very intimate thing to Henry, but with her French husband, she wanted to try everything. Her amorous experiences with François had long become far bolder and more eccentric than ones she had enjoyed with Henry, but she craved for more.

"I love you so," moaned the monarch. "Have I roused such a frantic passion in you?"

She moaned, "You have, my Knight-King."

"It is more than courtly love, my Minerva." His fingers shoved through her hair.

His guttural groan brought a saucy grin to her face. "It is something far more interesting."

Entwined in a pagan amorous rite, the monarch and his wife experimented, battled, and won. The hazy dark eyes held the salacious amber gaze as they danced with fanatical zest, torrents of passion washing over them. Fingers interlaced, leg to leg, arm to arm, chest to chest, they were climbing to the acme of indescribable gratification. Blessed by the Olympians, they submerged themselves into a stormy ocean of divine light, and then, gradually, their movements slowed.

Minutes later, François lay on the bed next to his consort – they were side-by-side and eye to eye. He stroked her hair and then traced patterns across her torso. Anne watched him with a look of unbelievable tenderness, and his heart ached to awaken in her genuine love for him.

However, the queen tensed as her father's words replayed in her mind. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyelids lowered, yet fear seized her insides. "We need our precious baby boy."

The king nibbled at her neck, then fondled her breasts. "We do, _mon amour_." Their gazes locked, and he discerned desperation in hers. "We need a prince, or better two boys, to make our dynasty strong. Now we are vulnerable: only Henri and I separate the House of Bourbon, their junior Bourbon-Vendôme line, from the throne. But if it is their destiny to be sovereigns of France, we will not be able to prevent it, Anne. Eventually, God will decide everything."

Anne cupped his face with a firm hand. "No! Fear not – and I know you are full of terror. The Valois will rule! I feel that will every fibre of my being. We will have a son!"

His eyes conveyed all his pent-up worry. "Yes, I am afraid. I do not want to become the Valois Knight-King whose sons all died and who failed to sire male progeny. Just as Philippe the Fourth of France, known as the Fair, was a great monarch, but none of his three surviving sons ruled for long, and they left no surviving male issue, which led to the extinction of the direct Capetian line. Then the devastating and long-lasting Hundred Years' War followed…" His expression was pained as he stroked her hair. "The crisis of succession often leads to bloodshed. Our country and people should not suffer from another horrible war. And we cannot predict the future."

A frenzied glint entered her gaze. "We will have _sons_. I promise you."

"Don't give promises you might not be able to keep. It is God's will, Anne."

The queen put her leg on his hip. "We must do our best not to blame ourselves later."

The monarch's eyes were now as desperate with both the desire to take Anne and the need to have a son as hers was. "How much I want you… the rest of the world be damned."

Locking her in his arms, François slid into Anne from the back. Kissing the side of her neck, he was thrusting into her. His every stroke was part of a sorcerous rite: long, slow, and hard, then more languid than before and more dulcet than the sound of a Greek flute, again long, and then almost violent. He unleashed in Anne a deluge of dormant feminine energy that she had never known about, remnants of her modesty peeling away to reveal raw, untapped emotions.

Surrendering to his caresses, Anne was in a state of sensual euphoria. Her feelings were fluttering like the wings of multicolored butterflies, flapping patches of color – purple, blue, and pink – in her mental realm. Anne was rewarded when these butterflies landed onto each and every part of her body, opening and closing wings as they transmitted colossal pleasure to her.

"A marvelous morning." His body convulsed in a cataclysm of overpowering sensation.

"So many colors," Anne whispered in the throes of ecstasy, feeling his seed inside her.

As they rested in their cozy nest under the sheets, visions of their glorious future, which had first been like an airy shadow, grew more distinct until at last, it stood before their eyes like the sun. The queen looked down into her heart so deeply that there was no thought invisible to her – there was no Henry Tudor in her universe. _I do not love Henry anymore,_ Anne concluded.

The ruler suddenly asked, "Are you happy that your enemies are imprisoned?"

His consort recalled the Duke of Norfolk's letter. "Yes, I'm reveling in Cromwell's and Suffolk's plights. Maybe soon Henry will realize that I never had any extramarital liaisons."

"Do you still think of Henry?" His voice was laced with hurt.

"No. He is dead to me." François smiled at her, and Anne kissed her husband deeply.

"François, are you sure of your daughter's matrimony with Ferdinand?"

Her husband stretched across the sheets. "Yes, I am. My sister and I concur that it would be a good match. Ferdinand is not only Archduke of Austria, but also King of Bohemia, Hungary, Croatia, and other lands. He is one of the best available bachelors in Christendom. This union would tie Ferdinand to our family and help us drive a wedge between the Habsburg brothers."

Anne placed her head upon the king's chest. "Ferdinand is twenty years older."

The monarch stroked her hair. "He is still young, handsome, and cultured. In many ways Ferdinand is different from Carlos." He sighed. "There is a sixteen-year gap between Henry and you. I am older than you, too. It is politics – marriages are part of power games."

Her hand slid down his leg. "Your forced union with Eleanor of Austria was unhappy."

The ruler's hand was making circles across her back. "Eleanor was a kind woman, but she was too simple – I was not interested in her. My daughter, Margot, is not a flawless beauty, but her stellar education, intelligence, and French sophistication will charm Ferdinand."

"If Ferdinand falls in love with our princess, he will be _less loyal to Carlos_."

François massaged his wife's neck. "And naturally inclined to become our _willing_ ally."

Anne chuckled. "You are playing such strategic contests."

"Yes, I am. And I have a good feeling about the outcome of our stratagem."

The royals chatted about the delights of their reunion after the tragedy. Finally, they fell into the arms of Morpheus and dreamed of spring's advent into their lives. When they awoke at sundown, their faces glowed like ethereal spirits with a liquid contentment in their eyes.

§§§

Threads of twilight mantled the castle. The presence chamber was lit by chandeliers. By the fireplace, four people sat in matching well-carved armchairs upholstered in red suede.

Ferdinand von Habsburg tossed his brown-haired head in disbelief. "Of all the strange and extraordinary proposals I've ever heard, this one is the most unbelievable."

"Why do you think so?" inquired Isabella of Portugal. "It is conciliatory."

François de Valois chucked. "My conditions are not as severe as you both anticipated."

"I'm not opposed to this marriage," Ferdinand avouched. "My late wife, Anna, bore me many children, but I don't refuse to start a new family with a young princess." His laugh expressed his incredulity. "However, even if I order my armies stationed in the north of Italy to withdraw to Austria, they might not obey me. My brother, Carlos, is their _ultimate_ commander."

François countered, "We can do everything if we spread _certain rumors_."

"Your Majesty," Anne addressed Ferdinand. "If you do not accept our offer, you will rot in this island-based château until the waters of the river erode the stones of the building, but it will not occur in your lifetime. Isn't being our ally better than that?"

Ferdinand jested bitterly, "How poetically Your Majesty has depicted my possible fate."

Her scrutiny glued to the prisoner, Isabella put in, "Cousin, I want you to be free, even if you have to go against your conscience. Besides, this plan will cease conflicts in Italy for some time."

Anne rejoined, "Neither France nor Spain is interested in further confrontations – for now. Spain is too weak for any war; France needs more time to recover from the invasion."

Empress Isabella perused Queen Anne of France. She could not call this woman beautiful in a traditional way, but Anne's exotic allure and her charismatic charm fully compensated for the lack of classical features. Anne had the peculiar eye for politics; everything associated with her would never grow stale. _Anne's story will always be colored with singularity,_ Isabella mused.

The intersection of the two women's gazes heralded the conflux of their life rivers for the time being. Their mutual interest shone in their countenances, affecting their manner of speaking.

François remained intransigent in his position. "So, a golden cage or an alliance with me?"

Ferdinand shook his head. "I cannot betray Carlos. I've always been loyal to him."

"Very well." François stood up, signaling his queen to do the same. "Then, Your Bohemian, Hungarian, and Croatian Majesty will rot here for decades. That I promise you."

The French royals were about to leave when Isabella's voice halted them.

"Ferdinand gives his consent!" exclaimed Isabella. "He will grant you the Duchy of Milan."

Ferdinand frowned at his cousin. "Bella, what are you doing?"

The empress said quickly, "Saving you, cousin. You are still young and must live your life to the fullest. François is not asking you to sign the document as awful as the Treaty of Madrid. There will be no ransom! Just Milan, the marriage, and the alliance between you two!"

"Carlos will not forgive me," Ferdinand persevered.

"My husband," continued Isabella, "will not be ready to give away any of his lands for your freedom. Despite all my love for Carlos, I know how power-hungry he is. He can easily sacrifice his relatives' wellbeing to keep power." Her veiled hint was at Queen Juana's misfortunes.

Ferdinand's brows knitted. "Is there something else I don't know?" He had no idea that his mother, who had been calumniated by Ferdinand of Aragon and then Carlos, was not mad.

The empress would not tell her cousin the truth about Juana to avoid setting up the Habsburg brothers against each other. "Nothing. Carlos is unlikely to negotiate your release successfully."

François and Anne looked at them with interest, but they did not interfere.

"So, a gilded cage or your liberation?" François repeated.

The Valois king stared at the King of Hungary for a long time. He waited for his answer, his hand laced with his spouse's as they stood nearby. Finally, Ferdinand nodded slowly.

Ferdinand's desire to regain his freedom and to spite Carlos for dragging him into this mess, and then abandoning him crystallized into several words: a _bargain_ with King François. Ferdinand would assist François in restoring the Duchy of Milan to France, although it was treason of the emperor's interests. Yet, sentiments like generations grow out of date. _At least, François does not demand that I cede more territories to him. I shall be free, then_ , Ferdinand told himself.

The King of Hungary sighed meditatively. "Your Majesty's confidence of success is well grounded. The strong filial bonds that tied me and Carlos for years were shaken by his betrayals."

"You should not have attacked France," Anne fired, but the archduke only nodded.

Isabella swore, "Carlos will not learn about this conversation."

"Thank you, my dearest cousin." Ferdinand sent the empress a grateful smile.

"My councilors shall prepare the treaty." François' flat voice masked his delight.

Ferdinand's concerns resurfaced. "What if we fail to achieve in Italy what you want?"

Confidence emanated from the Valois ruler. "I grant it as an exceedingly remote possibility. My scheme is too complex for your brother's spies to figure it out. But if somethings goes badly, you might lose the right to govern the Austrian lands of the Habsburgs in the name of the emperor, although Carlos has no one else more competent to appoint on this position."

Anne put in, "You shall still have Bohemia, Hungary, Croatia, and your other lands."

Ferdinand's listless laugh hit their ears like a weak rivulet of water. "If your scheme fails, I shall take my own life, and your daughter will become a widow."

Isabella swallowed her fear. "Ferdinand, I shall try to pacify Carlos' wrath."

"Your Bohemian Majesty," François drawled. "There are rather many roads into the land of oblivion, but you are young to be there. Exits from calamitous situations can be arranged."

Isabella touched her cousin's shoulder. "The difference between suicide and martyrdom is the amount of tears shed afterwards. You are neither a weakling nor a martyr, Ferdinand."

"Well, I've planned to live a long life," Ferdinand uttered, with a slight curl of the lip.

François chuckled. "You will have it."

The empress pointed out, "You need to talk to Princess Marguerite, then."

Anne's gaze oscillated between François and Isabella. "Husband, your sister or I will do it."

"Good." The King of France hoped his daughter would not rebel against his decision.

The other man assured. "I'm not a man whom nature robbed of gallant manners and respect to female intelligence just because I am a Spaniard by birth."

"That I know," the ruler of France answered. "I'm aware of your late wife's political acumen and her courage, which she displayed during the battles for Buda against the Ottomans. I heard how well you treated Anna of Bohemia, and I've rejoiced in my findings. Unlike her late mother, my daughter Margot is not a gentle flower: she is a lady of abounding compassion, indomitable will, and eagerness for adventure, despite her youth and impeccable social standing."

His bride's description satisfied Ferdinand. "We will find common ground, then." His mind drifted to politics. "France's alliance with Sultan Suleiman is unholy!"

Removing his hand from Anne's, the ruler of France stood up. "I need the Franco-Turkish alliance to prevent Carlos from new attempts to subjugate France."

Ferdinand frowned. "Ah, of course."

Isabella jerked to her feet. "Your Majesties, I sent to Queen Anne a letter a while ago; Carlos does not know about it. I'm sure that you both read it. What about my proposal?"

"What letter?" Ferdinand rose as well.

The king shook his head. "It is out of consideration, at least for now."

This verdict upset Isabella. "I wish to return to Spain as soon as possible."

François tried to persuade her otherwise. "Your Imperial Majesty, the journey through the Pyrenees in winter would be too perilous. Better spend time at my court with your cousin."

"I can delay my departure only until February," conceded Isabella.

The French couple left in an exhilarated mood. The thing François had dreamed about for years was at last to be accomplished: the Duchy of Milan would become his possession again.

The Habsburg cousins remained alone. Having pondered their conversation, Ferdinand's anger with Carlos transmuted into determination to act exactly as François had suggested.

Ferdinand breathed wearily, "I have no choice."

"I'll appease my husband's rage," avouched Isabella. "Somehow."

The cards of fate had fallen in an unusual pattern. Soon, unannounced and not desired at the Valois court, Ferdinand would arrive there to make acquaintance with Princess Marguerite.

* * *

 ** _January 10, 1539, Alcázar of Seville, Seville, the Province of Seville, Spain_**

Despite a late hour, a group of people assembled by the fireplace in the grand private rooms to greet French fugitives. Duke Claude de Guise and Cardinal Jean de Lorraine conversed with Alonso de Lara y Solís, Archbishop of Seville and Inquisitor of the Spanish Church.

 _We will take revenge,_ Claude de Lorraine swore in his mind. During the invasion of France of 1536, the Duke de Guise had fought against the Spaniards. Yet, François' marriage to Anne had enraged Guise so much that he had helped the Duke of Alba, the emperor's right-hand man, evacuate a wounded Carlos from the battlefield and deliver him home. Guise had expected that they might need Carlos' help to save France from heresy, and hence, he had acted so.

Emperor Carlos lounged in a leather-draped chair behind an oak oval-shaped desk. He addressed his guests. "Your Grace and Your Eminence, I'll grant you asylum in my country. You are true Catholics, so I cannot be indifferent to your misfortunes in your homeland."

The Archbishop of Seville pontificated, "The Lord has blessed Your Imperial Majesty to be His ambassador on earth. You are saving these men who could have been slaughtered in France. Wherever your feet step, a benediction is around, and the sun of the true faith is rising."

The Cardinal de Lorraine joined, "Your Imperial Majesty is a true son of Christ."

"The most Christian monarch," lauded the Duke de Guise.

"I'm helping you only because it is my Christian duty." Too late the emperor realized that he had fallen into Seville's snare when the man had hinted that he would rid the world of _the worst heretic_ – Anne Boleyn. "I'm not pleased that you attempted to kill a pregnant woman, even though she is a godless whore. I regret that the innocent Prince Charles became your victim."

Seville's grizzled eyebrows furrowed. "That Boleyn trollop is our faith's enemy: she led astray and forced King Henry to break with the Catholic Church, and now she has her claws into King François, poisoning his mind against Catholics and preaching about religious tolerance. We had to dispose of her before she could harm the supporters of the Vatican in France."

Carlos smothered the idea of kicking the opinionated man out of the room. "Your Eminence dared commit something for what you needed my permission. You have forgotten that you are only the Chief Inquisitor in my kingdom, one who also holds other ecclesial positions. I did not ask you to kill Anne Boleyn, and, even worse, I had no idea about your plot."

A flash of ire shadowed Seville's countenance. "We had His Holiness' blessing."

"What?" gasped the emperor.

Guise tipped his head. "The Pope instructed us to squash heresy in France."

Carlos was shocked. "Anne's child is innocent of its mother's sins."

"It is not as simple as that," Guise continued, stretching his legs closer to the fire. "The false queen was pregnant, and if she had birthed a son, she could have done away with Dauphin Henri later on quietly so as not to be discovered. Then we would have had a heretic on the French throne. Thanks be to God that she is continuously failing to produce male progeny."

Waves of venomous laugher passed through Seville. "God cursed her to have only girls."

The French guests joined in the Inquisitor's laughter, glad that Anne had only daughters.

Lorraine clamored, "France will be in danger as long as the witch is the king's courtesan. If she succeeds in giving François a prince, the French will face eternal damnation."

Guise concurred. "It is good that Prince Charles was killed. He was a Catholic, but his aunt, Marguerite of Navarre, infected his young mind with interest in heresy. Now Dauphin Henri no longer has rivals for the throne, provided that François will not have another son."

"She must die," Seville ground out. "That is the Pope's and God's will."

Guise's leer was full of anticipated victory. "François' concubine will die."

Seville gazed between Guise and Lorraine. "You are both in Spain. Who will finish the Lord's deal, then? Do you have other allies at the French court?"

Guise's diabolic laugh boomed through the chamber. "There are _two people_ who want her dead even more than we do. They will finish her off sometime in the future."

Lorraine smirked. "François does not suspect how close his wanton is to peril."

"I must know everything," commanded the monarch. "In a few days."

"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty!" Lorraine and Guise both bowed. But they would not disclose that Catherine de' Medici and Diane de Poitiers were the Pope's agents and allies.

Even in the dim candlelight, the emperor's face was flushed from the rage that he could barely contain. "You both are bloody fortunate to be alive. You will move to one of the mansions owned by Francisco de les Cobos, for I do not wish to be slandered as a villain who has welcomed criminals at my court. You will lie low without contacting anyone in France or anywhere else."

The vehemence in the emperor's voice surprised the Lorraine brothers.

"Your wishes are the law for us," Guise responded for them both.

Carlos' gaze raked over each of his companions, his teeth compressed firmly. "Seville, don't you dare plot behind my back again even with His Holiness. Guise and Lorraine, don't disobey me while you are in my realm: don't risk your necks because I can easily break them."

Displeased, the Archbishop of Seville crouched in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames, and tipped more logs into the fire. "Of course, Your Imperial Majesty." He lied.

A moment later, Francisco de les Cobos entered. He walked across the room and bowed to the monarch. "A letter from your wife has arrived for Your Imperial Majesty."

Emperor Carlos headed to the other side of the chamber for privacy. Having eased himself into an ebony chair, its seat displaying inlays of ivory and lapis-lazuli, he broke the seal and scanned through it. His eyes stopped moving halfway down the page, widening in surprise.

"Is everything all right, Your Imperial Majesty?" Seville questioned.

Carlos muttered, "Isabella will spend more time in France."

Seville assumed, "It must be due to the frosty weather."

The emperor released a sigh. "I would not want her to cross the Pyrenees in winter."

Cobos asked, "Did Her Imperial Majesty negotiate the release of King Ferdinand?"

"Well, yes, she did." The emperor's nervous laugh alarmed the others.

Casting his gaze back to the paper, the emperor re-read Isabella's letter again.

 _Carlos, mi amour,_

 _I've secured the release of our dear Ferdinand. Don't worry about him._

 _I had to spend a few months at Fontainebleau while King François was grieving for his son – the late Prince Charles, Duke d'Orléans. A sense of bereavement cloaked the entire royal family and the Valois court. It is by no means uncommon for bereaved persons to seek solitude for prayer and consolation, just as the monarch did, so I'm not offended that I had to wait._

 _My beloved Carlos, you are the keeper of my heart! Even when I am far away from you, you are the first thing I think of when I wake up. I've been advised to postpone my departure until the advent of spring for the sake of my safety, and I beg your pardon for that. I'm looking forward to our happy life in Spain where I'll wake up next to you, not needing to imagine you._

 _Loving you from afar, your wife Isabella_

The last line was poignant and especially lovely in Isabella's elegant handwriting.

 _I love you. Oh, I love you. My Carlos! Yours forever and ever!_

A smiling Carlos folded the paper, so entranced by her confessions that his heart vibrated with yearning for Isabella. Nevertheless, at the thought of his younger sibling, arrows of terror struck him in the chest: although Isabella had not named the terms of Ferdinand's liberation, he could read between the lines, realizing that the price would be his betrayal of their family interests. _Will Ferdinand go against me and how?_ Carlos would never voice his fears to anyone.

The emperor hid the letter in the pocket of his doublet. Veering his gaze to his chief councilor, he quizzed, "Francisco, do you have something urgent?"

Cobos glanced askance at the guests. "Out!" Carlos enjoined them.

As the duke and the cardinal left, the emperor returned to his armchair.

Cobos shuffled his feet agitatedly before reporting, "I've also received a letter from the Genoese bankers. They know about our problems, so they reminded us that next year, we must redeem a large debt. If we don't refill our coffers, we will miss the payment."

Seville interposed, "Princess Mary's marriage to a wealthy Spanish noble might resolve our difficulties. She abandoned England, and now she a member of the Habsburg family, as well as your subject. If Your Imperial Majesty commands her to marry, she must obey."

The ruler ran his hand through his hair. "It is not the best decision."

In the meantime, Mary Tudor poked her head into the room. She had come to her cousin, but, shaken by what she had overheard, she noiselessly closed the door and tiptoed away.

§§§

The night firmament, with stars scattered across it, was as clear as it could be in spring. The moonlight was so bright that Emperor Carlos strolled freely through the gardens.

The gardens exhibited features and remains of several eras. His gaze drifted to the 14-th century vaulted baths, where María de Padilla, the favorite mistress of King Peter of Castile, had bathed, which nowadays were the rainwater tanks supplying the palace with water. His eyes slid to a maze of myrtle bushes covered with show, and then to the pavilion of Carlos V, which had been erected by Juan Hernandez. These days, the ruler could find repose only in this park.

Carlos halted at the sight of a woman near the rainwater tanks. As she swung around, he recognized Mary, involuntary admiring her beauty that had an unearthly quality in the moonlight.

He reached her in three strides. "What are you doing here, Your Highness?"

Mary quipped, "I'm enjoying my stay at one of the most stunning palaces in Spain, which combines elements of the Mudéjar, Gothic, and modern styles."

"You are not all right," the emperor deduced.

There was a strangely hopeful look on her face, but it vanished when their eyes met. "Are you really going to marry me off? I dislike that, but I shall do my duty to Spain."

"Did you eavesdrop upon me and my councilors?"

At this, her cheeks were stained red. "No, I didn't! My mother raised me better than this. I came to you and heard only the Archbishop of Seville's recommendation."

"I'm relieved that I can trust you. Shall we stroll a bit?" He extended a hand to her.

She slipped her arm through his. "Gladly."

They sauntered away from María de Padilla's former baths. In companionable silence, Mary and Carlos sauntered across the veranda and to the pond, where they stopped. They sat down on a bench in the shade of a big oak, which drooped its branches under the weight of snow.

She giggled. "I've been the topic of discussion since my arrival."

He arched his brows. "Is that so? I'll shut my courtiers' mouths."

"That is not necessary, Your Imperial Majesty."

He briefly gazed towards an alley of snow-capped maples in the distance. "Mary, I want you to be content. Be at ease: I shall not force you to act so."

The moonlight silvered their silhouettes, hiding eyes in deep shadow, so Carlos leaned forward ever so slightly, as if to touch her, or to see her face better. Perturbed and confused, Mary trembled under his penetrating stare. Usually, in her presence, because of the fierce vigilance the ruler had developed around most people, his demeanor was reserved and cautious. Nonetheless, at this moment, his eyes glimmered with amusement, scrutinizing and testing her.

Strengthening, the emperor elucidated, "I looked into your eyes in order to see whether you trust my words. I failed to protect Aunt Catherine, but I'll take care of you."

"Thank you very much, Your Imperial Majesty."

He attempted to jest. "How could I force my lovely English cousin into marriage? I'm a man of many controversies, but not a villain who might disappoint a treasure such as yourself."

In such an informal environment, Mary was suddenly inclined to candor. "I've never seen you so full of mirth and exuberance, save when you are with the empress."

"My Isabella!" exclaimed Carlos with immense adoration. "She will return in spring!"

"You are a wonderful couple!" Odd envy threaded her words.

"What do you think of your father's personal situation?"

Mary emitted a sigh. "I'm sad that Lady Jane Seymour was set aside. The Bassett queen is similar to the Boleyn strumpet: they are both whores and Protestants."

"England has been ruled by harlots since your mother was expelled."

A shaft of moonlight placed Carlos in Mary's observation. In his perfectly fitted ermine cloak slashed white satin, he looked splendid despite his ascetic style. His majestic stature and his expressive countenance, beaming with crafty intelligence, displayed his strength of character. For Mary who was not used to interacting with men, it was intoxicating just to contemplate him.

"We ought to return to the palace." His tone was strict again.

Her shoulders fell with a disheartened sigh. "Of course. Why would we stay outside?"

"Let's go." Carlos hoisted his cousin to her feet, his gaze distant like a stranger's.

The former princess followed the monarch back to the veranda and the park. The snow glistened like diamond dust, and she longed to ensconce herself in its heaps from her stinging shame stemming from the nascent attraction for her cousin, who was the first man with whom she had a close contact. Yet, seeing Carlos was as delicious as tasting excellent apple tarts spiced with cinnamon. _Carlos is Isabella's husband. I_ _must pray for absolution,_ Mary berated herself.

* * *

 _Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe. I am finally back to Switzerland after my long absence._

 _It was clear that King Ferdinand cannot be imprisoned forever. King François is quite generous to his enemy whom he wants to make his ally, and Ferdinand is not forced to sign any humiliating document such as the Treaty of Madrid of 1529, which temporarily confirmed Spanish (Habsburg) hegemony in Italy and made François repudiate all his claims to Italian duchies and Burgundy._

 _King François wants to restore the Duchy of Milan because he is Valentina Visconti's descendant on paternal side, and Ferdinand will help him achieve this. François has a crafty plan, and some details were mentioned in this chapter – this will be implemented in later chapters. I deliberately made Ferdinand hesitate and finally Isabella consent to François' demands, for Ferdinand's loyalty to Carlos was tremendous in history, and it is very difficult to make it crack. It is a turning point for the relationship of Carlos and Ferdinand, and you may imagine where this all might lead._

 _I hope you like the interaction between Isabella and Anne, but there will be more in later chapters._

 _Now a widower, Ferdinand will have to marry Princess Marguerite. François has a crafty plan: he thinks that this matrimonial union will not be without affection on both parts, which would make Ferdinand less loyal to Emperor Carlos. Are François and Marguerite correct that this marriage might have a happy ending? What do you think?_

 _I hope that you noticed that in Anne's love scene with François they are both sort of frantic, partly because they were apart for months due to the king's self-imposed seclusion in his quarters, and more because of their knowledge that they need a son, perhaps even more than one boy. François bares his heart and shares his fears about the possible end of the Valois dynasty with Anne. And of course, they are both passionate by nature and enjoy their marriage bed experiences. Apparently, Anne is beginning to slowly fall for François, but it will take time for her._

 _Anne is also desperate in the love scene because Thomas Boleyn reminded her of her two "failures" – she has two girls with the King of France. Although you must loathe Thomas for his conversation with Anne, he is right. Only three things would make Anne safe in France – a son/sons, the king's love, and possible conversion into Catholicism. Boleyn is sent away to Italy because François wants to use his diplomatic talents and needs to keep him away from Anne, Mary, and Elizabeth Boleyn. Thomas Boleyn possessed excellent diplomatic skills, and we need him for Italian wars._

 _The Lorraine brothers arrived in Spain, and Carlos gives them refuge, but he sends them away from his court in order to hide their location and not to blacken his reputation. He had no idea about the Pope's plot together with the Lorraine brothers and with Alonso de Lara y Solís, Archbishop of Seville and Inquisitor of the Spanish Church, against Anne, which resulted in Prince Charles' death. As for Mary and Carlos, she feels unexpected attraction to him because she has no experience of communicating with men – Carlos will always love Isabella, just as he did in history._

 _VioletRoseLily and I began co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance", but we are posting it only at AO3. Give it a try, and thank you in advance!_

 _I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Athénaïs Penelope Clemence_


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